


The miner's wife

by MockingJayFlyingFree



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drug Abuse, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Masturbation, Panem AU, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Burn, babywearing!Katniss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-01-13 23:18:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 26
Words: 142,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1244200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MockingJayFlyingFree/pseuds/MockingJayFlyingFree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an alternate universe in which Prim was never reaped, Katniss married Gale at the age of 18, as a good Seam girl should. 12 years later, she has two children with him. Peeta Mellark, the lone victor of the 74th Hunger Games, is a failed mentor and a prostitute in the Capitol. When he is home in District 12, he is self-destructive and on his way to becoming an alcoholic.</p><p>What happens when their paths cross for the first time since that fateful incident with the bread?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
>   
> 
> 
> Please note the following triggers: Drug abuse, alcohol abuse, forced prostitution, non-con, mention of abortion.
> 
> Thank you so much to Lbug84, my amazing beta!

The rain was pouring down. Peeta Mellark, lone victor of the 74th Hunger Games, looked with disinterest out of the train window. Fall in 12 was dark, and dreary, and wet.

The string of parties he had attended the last three weeks or so in the Capitol had been anything but dark and dreary. They were full of glitter, lights, outrageous clothes, loud music and entertainment that he didn’t quite understand. Though after fourteen years, he knew the drill. Drink. Eat. Take that little glass of emetic. Throw up. Eat some more. Suck up to the right people. Laugh at the right places. Flirt, but not too much – except with the client of the night.

So it would seem that the parties were dreary, too. Just dreary in a different way.

The trick to survive was not to drink right before he took the emetic, because if he did, he wouldn’t get drunk. He had to give the alcohol time to reach his intestines before he expelled the contents of his stomach. He really needed the alcohol to numb his body, numb his mind. Numb his world. Wigs, glitter, make-up, expensive clothes, mindless conversations about nothing. Oh, he knew how to play them now. The men _and_ the women. He wasn’t the most popular victor, but he was close. He knew the prices he commanded weren’t far behind Finnick's or Cashmere’s.

The drugs helped, too. Thankfully. They worked even better than alcohol to numb his mind. And if his body wouldn’t cooperate, if whoever bought him was particularly ugly, particularly boring, or particularly nasty, well... the Capitol had pills for that, too.

He had a couple of months off now, at least until the next Victory tour. Some poor girl from 1 had been the victor of the 88th Annual Hunger Games. She’d been a vicious killer with impressive knife throwing skills, but he felt sorry for her nonetheless. She was pretty. He’d just witnessed her first season “working” in the Capitol. He wondered if she would last in the long run. At least she had Cashmere to help her out.

In January, the Victory Tour would come to 12, and he’d be expected to put on a show at the reception and then the party. Twelve was the last stop before 1, the new victor’s home district, and they saved the Capitol for last as always. Peeta had been a mentor 14 times, and not even once had he been even close to getting a tribute out of the arena alive.

Perhaps that was for the best.

The train approached the electric fence, and came to a stop. Peeta poured himself another drink. They’d be there in five minutes. The train passed through the electric fence, and he studied the armed peacekeepers outside of the window because he didn’t have anything better to do. He saw their closed faces. They looked wet and miserable.

Haymitch met him at the train station. There was no one else. He guessed he shouldn’t be surprised, his family hadn’t met him at the train station in years. That was probably for the best, too.

“You didn’t even bring an umbrella,” Peeta huffed at Haymitch. The old drunk was still ruggedly handsome, but his lifestyle was starting to take its toll. The sclerae of his eyes now had a slight yellow tinge to them. Peeta made a mental note to make some phone calls to the Capitol. If Haymitch died… Peeta shuddered.

If Haymitch died, he’d have no one.

Haymitch was already soaking wet, but by the looks of it, he was so drunk that he didn’t care, anyway. He just guffawed at Peeta’s umbrella remark.

“How was the Capitol?”

“Same, same.” Peeta pulled up the collar of his jacket, but he knew he’d be soaked through by the time they got home, anyway. It was only a ten minute walk, but he wished they’d had cabs in 12, like in the Capitol. Even the Capitol had its perks.

It was getting dark, but he was grateful. He didn’t feel like meeting anyone today. They all knew he’d been in the Capitol. They’d also more than likely seen him on TV – in the arms of one socialite after the other. When he first came home as a victor after miraculously surviving the 74th Hunger Games, he’d thought his life would return to normal. It didn’t take him long to find out how wrong he was. Not even his own family could handle it – that their son was no longer one of them. He had seen and done things that they could not understand. He found himself somewhere in the gray zone between 12 and the Capitol. Too Capitol for 12. Too 12 for the Capitol.

“There’s been an accident in the mines,” Haymitch said.

“Oh.” Peeta didn’t even try to fake an interest in it. There were accidents in the mines all the time. “How many?”

Haymitch shrugged. “Who knows? Right before the winter, too.”

Peeta nodded. He knew what Haymitch meant. It was very bad timing for the widows and children to lose their sole provider at this time of the year. He didn’t see the point in discussing it, though, so he changed the subject to something more pleasant. “Finnick says hi. He also sent you some liquor from 4.”

“Bless him!” Haymitch accepted the bottle Peeta pulled from his pocket and immediately opened it. After taking a few deep gulps himself, he handed the bottle back to Peeta. “Let’s go home.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes. As they were almost at the end of the Main Street, the only street in 12 with streetlights, they saw a small group of people walking in their direction. Peeta recognized Mr. Halloway, the leader of the mining operations, as well as Cray, the head Peacekeeper of 12. He despised them both. He also knew what it meant.

They were on their way to the mining company’s headquarters to give the widows of the miners who had been killed today their last paycheck. The mining company was generous. It was only the 11th, but they would still pay the miners up until the end of the month.

Then the families were on their own.

“Fuck, Haymitch, I don’t think I can deal with this tonight,” he hissed, but it was too late. There was nowhere else to go, they were forced to pass the small, pathetic group of people. He could already hear the sobbing of the widows and the cries of a baby.

Peeta kept his eyes fixed on the ground. Common courtesy dictated that he had to greet Mr. Halloway and that old fucker Cray, though. He was protected by his victor status, but it was always a good idea not to piss off Cray.

“Mr. Mellark, such a pleasure to see you,” Mr. Halloway said with a smile on his face. He was always trying to suck up to 12’s biggest celebrity. Well, 12’s _only_ celebrity.  Peeta muttered something in return, hoping to avoid any further contact with them. He couldn’t deal with actual human emotion tonight. He was already longing for another drink.

He gritted his teeth. There were perhaps ten women in the small following, and a disturbingly high number of children. They were all underfed and underdressed, and it seemed like they were all covered in a thin layer of coal dust. Peeta always tried to stay away from the people from the Seam as much as he could. Being around them was a too painful reminder of… something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something he tried his best not to think about.

Just as he was about to direct his gaze to the safe ground again, he saw her. At the very back of the group.

His eyes met hers for just a split second. She was carrying a baby in a pale orange wrap on her chest. The baby was the one he’d heard crying in the distance. It still was. He couldn’t see clearly, but the infant must be very little, perhaps only a few months old.

He’d seen her with a swollen belly months earlier. In early summer. She had looked so beautiful, with flowers in her hair.

The woman held a boy’s hand, the boy must’ve been 4 or 5 years old. Like all the other Seam children, he had that look in his eyes. The look that told him this boy knew what hunger was. He guessed the boy would be even better acquainted with hunger soon enough.

Her cheeks were covered in tears, but unlike the other widows, she didn’t make a sound. She swayed slightly, trying to soothe her baby on her chest. Peeta opened his mouth as if to say something, but thought better of it.

Then they had passed the group of women and children. His gaze returned to the dirt on the street. When they were out of earshot, Haymitch asked him: “Who was that?”

“What?”

“The one you looked at.”

“Oh. It was Mrs.… Hawthorne.”

“Oh.” Haymitch paused. “Such a shame. I remember her, I just didn’t recognize her with the children and all. It’s the Everdeen girl, right?” Peeta nodded. “I used to buy squirrels from her. Long ago, before she married that Hawthorne boy.”

“Yeah. Long ago.”

The victors returned to their empty, dark homes in the Victors’ village. Peeta got one last mouthful of strong District 4 liquor before they parted. He could swear the shit had an aftertaste of seashells, although he didn’t even know how that was technically possible. When he arrived home, the house had that stale smell that houses get when no one lives in them. He didn’t bother showering or turning on the lights, other than the few he needed to locate the liquor cabinet. He found a bottle of scotch and downed two glasses along with some Capitol pills he had in his pocket.

He went upstairs. The world was starting to become shiny. It _sparkled_. It was familiar. Safe. It guarded him from the darkness.

Soon Peeta Mellark, victor of the 74th Hunger Games, was unconscious in his bed.


	2. A chance meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this chapter before I go on vacation after all, because Lbug84 beta'ed it in zero time! Thank you so much for your help! Not to mention your invaluable feedback on the storyline.
> 
> I'm going to hit the beach tomorrow, and if I can read your reviews while I'm lying on the beach with a drink in my hand, you'll make my day! Okay, so that's wishful thinking - there won't be any alcohol, and I'll be too busy running after my crazy children to relax on the beach. I still intend to have a great time, and I do love reviews!

**Katniss POV**

* * *

 

I look at myself in the mirror.

This won’t do.

With shaking fingers, I unbraid my hair, allowing my long, black hair to fall freely over my shoulders. It makes me look younger, and I’ll need that tonight. It also makes me look different. It's almost as if it turns me into someone else.

I’ll need that, too.

I go to the kitchen and find the sharpest knife we’ve got. The one Gale used to gut rabbits with, years ago, before the electric fence was on day and night. I go back to the bathroom, and over the sink, I cut myself. The knife is so sharp, it slices through the soft skin of my inner forearm easily. It hardly hurts at all. Gale always kept his knives in pristine condition, and I haven’t used this particular one since before he died.

The blood drips into the sink. It creates intricate patterns, mingling with drops of water that still remain from before, when I washed the coal dust off my face. I stare at it, hypnotized, for a few seconds. Then I snap out of it, and catch the drops of blood with the index finger of my other hand. I spread the blood over my cheeks, thinly, creating the illusion of a blush in them. I create the illusion of good health and actual life. Then I do the same with my lips.

It's better. I still look pale and drawn, but at least it’s… better.

I go back into the living room, where my mother is waiting. Ivy is sleeping on her chest. It’s taken forever to put her to sleep. I hardly have any milk left for her, and neither does Prim’s goat. We are both starving. We are all starving.

My mother looks up and meets my eyes. “Katniss…” Her voice is pleading.

I shake my head. “Don’t.”

There are tears in her eyes. “Please…”

I walk over to her, crouching down next to her so I can look straight at Ivy’s sleeping face. Her arm is stretched out, her hand resting on my mother’s neck. It should be nice and chubby. It isn’t. “That’s why,” I whisper to her, stroking my daughter’s hand. Very carefully. I don’t want to wake her now that she has finally fallen asleep. But, I need to gather courage. I need to remember _why_.

I don’t look back. I put on my winter boots. I should’ve bought new ones two winters ago, but Arrow needed a coat and we couldn't afford both. I wrap my upper body in a large woolen shawl and venture out into the snow. The biting cold nearly takes my breath away. The wind is the worst, though. It blows right through the shawl, and within minutes, I’m shivering. I walk faster to try to keep warm. I can’t be late.

Cray has been interested in me for years. Ever since I was 14 or 15. I was oblivious to it at first, but Gale pointed it out to me. He told me to be careful. It would break his heart to know what I'm doing. But what choice do I have?

I’ll have to compete for his attention tonight, and I’ll be competing against girls who are younger and prettier than me.

I feel a wave of nausea.

I think about the children. Ivy, with her rail thin arms and thighs. Arrow, with his gray, knowing eyes, far too large in his little face. The final paycheck from the mines didn’t last long. Mother, Prim and Hazelle have tried to help, but they are starving, too. I’m not the only one whose children’s lives are on the line. The electricity on the fence is on 24 hours a day now and it has been for years, so I can’t hunt. There are no jobs to be found. I’ve tried everywhere. But who wants to employ a Seam widow with a baby at her breast, who has no real skillset in life, except archery?

No one. That’s who.

Despite the cold, I find myself slowing down as I approach his house. I’ve never been with anyone but Gale. I never wanted to, and I never thought I would. And now… I swallow. I know I’ll have to leave Cray wanting more. I have to make him want me again, and again, and again. How am I supposed to manage that?

I need to buy some goat’s milk for Ivy. I know the Graysons’ goat is still lactating. I’ve seen babies die from starvation before, too many times. They’ve died on my mother’s kitchen table, with their crying mothers by their side. Mothers who looked just like me: Dark-haired, olive-skinned, far too thin, and far too desperate. I’m not going to be one of them, though. I won’t watch my children die.

My teeth are chattering. It’s started to snow again, and it’s difficult to walk. My boots are leaking and I can barely feel my toes. It doesn’t matter though. I’m almost there. Perhaps it’s best if I can’t really feel my body anyway.

I turn around a corner, and gasp as I bump into someone. “I’m sorry,” I mutter, automatically. The road is icy and the figure I bumped into has fallen. I reach out my hand to help whoever it is up on his feet. It's only then do I see that it’s none other than Haymitch Abernathy, the Victor. I wonder what he’s doing out at this time of the night.

He seems to think the same of me. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Mrs… Hawthorne, is it?” He’s slurring. He must be dead drunk, as usual. No wonder he fell.

I nod. I’m surprised he knows who I am, not to mention my name.

“Katnissssss…. Katniss Everdeen. Funny how things change, isn’t it?” No. No, I don’t think it’s funny. And I have no idea what he’s talking about. I’m eager to get going. I can’t be late. But Mr. Abernathy doesn’t seem to want to let me go. “I remember when you were a defiant 16-year-old who had enough guts to find out how to singlehandedly feed her family.” He must see the surprise in my eyes, because he continues. “Oh yes. I noticed you. And now… Where are you going at this time of the night?”

I open my mouth as if to form words, but I can’t think of anything to say. No excuse. He narrows his eyes and reaches out a hand, lifting my chin. Forcing me to look up at him.

“What have you done with your cheeks?”

I take a step back. “Nothing.”

“You’re going to Cray, aren’t you?”

Hearing the name is like getting a punch in the gut. “It’s none of your business.”

I brush past him. I can’t be late. Ivy needs that goat milk so badly. She’s been more quiet lately. I know that's a bad sign. When babies still have the energy to cry because they’re hungry, they are not in real danger. Yet. It’s when they become quiet that you should worry. When they don’t have the energy to cry anymore. When they conserve what little energy they have to simply breathe.

She’s been too quiet lately.

“Katniss.”

I hear his voice behind me. I don’t stop. I don’t have time to.

I start running, but to my surprise, the old drunk catches up with me. His hand on my shoulder stops me short. “Don’t.”

He looks down at his hand, and I know what he thinks.  He looks worried. He’s felt, through the clothes, just how thin I am. What does he know about being hungry? I know he’s a Seam boy, but that was thirty years ago? Forty? He’s eaten well for decades. Surely he can’t remember what it’s like to be hungry.

“Don’t you judge me,” I say. My voice is surprisingly strong. It’s like a whip: sharp and hard.

“I don’t,” he says. “Believe me, I don’t. I know courage when I see it.”

I frown. He keeps speaking in riddles. Then his hand dips into his pocket, and he takes out a golden coin. My eyes widen. I hate myself, but I can’t stop myself from staring at it. “Here. It’s yours.”

I look up from the coin to his face. I shake my head slowly. “No. I don’t accept charity.”

“Dammit, Katniss, are you always this stubborn? I said take it. I saw you that day, when your husband had died in the mines. You had two children with you. Are they both still alive?” I nod. “But only barely,” he asserts. I don’t answer. “Right?” He presses. I nod again. A tear is rolling down my cheek. “Because otherwise you wouldn’t be going to Cray to sell your body to him.” I nod again, slowly. I can’t look at him anymore.

He takes my hand, and presses the coin into it. It feels warm against my ice cold fingers. He closes my fingers around it. “Come with me.”

“What?” I don’t understand what’s going on.

“Come on. We’re going to my house.”

The coin. It can buy Ivy milk for weeks. And bread for Arrow. Perhaps some meat, too. What does it matter if it’s Cray or Haymitch Abernathy? Cray would never pay this much, anyway. I know what his going rate is. He pays more for virgins, but only the first time. And I’m certainly no virgin.

I follow Haymitch through the snow. The Victors’ Village is dark and seems almost deserted. No lights are on in any of the windows. I know only two houses are inhabited, but still. The place seems almost dead.

“Come inside,” he says, and I obey. My body is shaking now. Both from the cold and from fear.

The house is a pigsty. I breathe slowly through my mouth to try to keep the stench at a bearable level, and I’m starting to wonder if perhaps Cray would’ve been the preferred option, after all.

“Do you want a drink?” I’m startled by his question, but I accept his glass. It doesn’t seem clean, but I guess – or hope - the alcohol will disinfect it. Some liquid courage is perhaps a good thing tonight. I had no idea Haymitch Abernathy buys sexual favors. I’ve never heard any rumors of it around town. But I suppose there’s a first time for everything.

He’s standing with his back towards me, looking out the window at the snow as he empties his glass. With shaking fingers, I begin to unbutton my dress. Better to get this over with. I put the coin, the ticket to a few more weeks of survival for my children, in the pocket of my dress, like it’s a precious jewel. Then I let the dress fall to the ground, and I stand naked and exposed in his kitchen. I didn't put on any underwear since I’ve heard Cray isn’t very careful with underwear, and I don’t have any to spare.

“Mr Abernathy,” I whisper, and he turns around. His eyes widen when he sees me, and instinctively my arms go up to cover my breasts.

“What the…?" His gaze travels up and down my body, and his eyes go dark. “Put your clothes on.” I look questioningly at him, close to tears. Tears from humiliation, and from fear. Was my body not good enough for him? I know I’m thin. So thin I stopped looking at my own body in the mirror months ago.“ Put your clothes on!” He repeats, his voice angry. With trembling fingers, I comply.

“I didn’t… I didn’t want _that_ ,” he says. Then he stops. “When was the last time you had a proper meal?”

“What?” It seems like that’s the only word I’m able to say in his presence. I feel like an idiot.

Haymitch mutters something under his breath. He rummages through the kitchen drawers and cupboards. The kitchen is a mess, but he does manage to locate food here and there. The first thing he hands me is a loaf of bread.

 “Here. Eat this. I’ll look for more.” I bring the loaf of bread up to my nose. It smells fresh. It must’ve been baked today. My mouth waters. “I got it from the Mellark’s bakery today. I don’t stock up on fresh bread often, so you’re in luck. Go ahead, eat it.

I shake my head. “I can’t.”

“I’ll send some more bread home with you to your children. Don’t worry.” It’s scary how he immediately understands why I can’t eat the bread. He seems to understand how I think. Perhaps he remembers what it’s like to be from the Seam and hungry, after all.

I force myself to eat slowly, because I know it’s been too long since I've had anything in my stomach. If I eat too quickly, it will all come up again. I chew slowly, so slowly, taking tiny bites. Haymitch gives me a glass of milk, and I look helplessly at it. “There’s more where that came from.”

I almost vomit when I feel the milk run down my throat, but I manage to keep it down. I know I can’t waste precious calories. I think of little Ivy at home. Her thin arms.

“If I’d known it was this bad, I’d…” Haymitch starts to say, but then he stops himself. Then he’d do what? He must know how many starving Seam families there are. He must. People starve to death every winter, and he has never done anything to help anyone. Why would he?

“It’s not charity,” he says. “You said you don’t accept charity, and it’s not. I have a job for you.”

I look up from my bread.

“It’s not for me, it’s for the boy.”

“The boy?”

“Peeta Mellark. The Victor. You know him, right?” I nod. Of course I do. He’s hardly a boy anymore.

“He needs someone to cook and clean for him. I’m worried about him. His house is a mess. It never was before, but it is now.” I can’t help taking a stolen look at his kitchen, and he doesn’t miss it. “It’s too late to save me, sweetheart,” he says with a smirk. “But the boy… He’s still salvageable. Maybe.” He mutters something unintelligible under his breath.

“I’m sorry?”

“Huh?”

“I couldn’t hear what you said. I’m sorry.”

“I said he’s stopped baking. The boy has stopped baking.” I don’t really know what it means, but I can tell from the look on his face that Haymitch finds this very disturbing.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask him.

“I want you to be his housekeeper. Keep him fed, clean his filthy house, do his laundry. You can take your children to live there, too.”

"Live there?"

"He's got plenty of space, sweetheart. I bet your children would appreciate living in a warm house."

“Does Mr Mellark know about this _arrangement_?” It’s a stupid question. How could he?

Haymitch shakes his head. “Leave that to me.” He packs food into two bags: Milk, some more bread, canned fruit, and canned meat. It's more food than I’ve seen in months. There are even some bananas. I’ve never seen real, fresh bananas before. “Here, take this. It should get you through the weekend. Come back here on Monday at noon. Pack the children and whatever clothes and other things you need. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Stunned, I leave his house. I’m carrying the bags of food and wearing a new winter jacket. It’s far too big for me. It must have been made for Mr. Abernathy, but he insisted.

When I arrive home it's late, but my mother is still awake. So is Ivy. She doesn’t cry. I put the bags down and take my daughter from my mother’s arms. I hold her close, pressing her to my chest.

“Katniss…” My mother whispers.

I shake my head. “Warm the milk on the stove. Quickly.” I motion to the bags on the floor.

“Milk?” She frowns. “I don’t understand.”

But she does as I ask. I mash a banana with a fork and take some of it on my finger, putting it into Ivy’s little mouth. She makes a face at the new taste, but sucks eagerly on my finger. When she learns that it’s food, she opens her little mouth for my finger immediately. She doesn't hesitate when I return it to her mouth with more banana on it. When the milk has been warmed up to body temperature, my mother gives me the bottle. “Don’t give her too much right away,” she cautions. She goes through the bags, with wide eyes. “Where did you get this?” my mother asks. She looks confused. I can’t blame her. No one leaves Cray’s house with food. They leave with a copper coin and bruises.

“Haymitch Abernathy,” I whisper.

“Haymitch… Abernathy?”

I nod. “I think… I think I’ve got a job.” The sight of Ivy’s little face, her fingers curling around the bottle as she sucks eagerly, brings tears to my eyes. As my milk supply has dwindled, not being able to feed my baby has been haunting me, day and night. “Go and wake up Arrow,” I tell her. "He went to bed hungry." He’s gone to bed hungry for months.

My mother soon comes back with Arrow in her arms. He complains, confused and dazed from being woken up, but when he sees the bread, his eyes widen and a smile slowly spreads across his lips.

When we fall asleep that night, it’s with full bellies. Ivy lies on top of my chest, and Arrow has his nose pressed against my arm.

 


	3. The deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I've been lazing on the beach (well, running after my crazy kids), two lovely ladies have been hard at work. Lbug84 has beta'ed and even ghostwritten parts of this chapter, and chelzie has beta'ed, too. Without them, who knows when you would've gotten to read this chapter. Certainly not today. Thank you so much, both of you!

**Katniss POV**

* * *

 

I nervously knock  on the door. It’s ten to twelve. I didn’t dare to be late today. Ivy rests her head on my chest and I stroke her head gently with one hand. My other hand holds an old paper bag, filled to capacity with her belongings. She doesn't have much.

It's a full minute before I finally hear shifting behind the door, followed by footsteps. I’m not surprised to find that Mr. Abernathy opens the door, instead of Mr. Peeta Mellark.

“Katniss, come in.” Mr. Abernathy doesn’t smile, but at least he doesn’t seem dead drunk. His gaze rakes over me once. “Where is your boy?”

“He’s at school,” I answer  hesitantly. “My mother will come here with him, along with the rest of our things, in the afternoon.”

“Ah, school." Mr. Abernathy chuckles, as if remembering how carefree childhood _could_ be. "How old is he now?”

“He’ll be seven this spring,” I tell him.

“Oh.” I can tell what he’s thinking. Arrow's too small for his age. I’m sure Mr. Abernathy knows why he is, too. He was once an underfed boy himself.

“Come inside. I just had a talk with Peeta.”

"Sure..." I idle in the doorway for a moment, unsure of what to do with the bag in my hands. I laugh nervously when Mr. Abernathy takes it from me, and sets it down on the floor, just inside of the foyer. He takes my coat too, and hangs it on a freestanding coat rack as he walks into the living room.

I follow him inside, and my eyes fall on Mr. Mellark. He's sitting on the couch, an angry expression written across his face. I understand immediately how their conversation must’ve gone. Mr. Mellark gets up from the couch, reluctantly, but doesn’t take the initiative to shake my hand or even say hello.

“I don’t need anyone to babysit me, Haymitch,” he hisses to the other victor. I look between them. With the exception of a few splatters of paint, Mr. Mellark's clothes are clean. The living room is relatively tidy and odorless. I can’t help but think that Mr. Abernathy might need babysitting just as much, if not more, than Mr. Mellark. But it’s not exactly as though this house is in pristine condition, either. I do see a crumpled up blanket on the couch and a pile of empty bottles against the far wall, beneath an open window. No wonder it doesn't smell of alcohol in here.

Finally, Mr. Mellark looks at me. He takes in my worn clothes, my thin frame, the pale skin of my face, and the skinny baby in my arms. It’s as if something changes in his eyes, if only briefly. There's a softening of his features. “It’s been a long time, Mrs. Hawthorne.”

Yes, it has, although technically, we have never spoken. Our only real interaction was when he once threw me a couple of burned loaves of bread. He probably doesn't even remember that. But he saved my life. It would seem that he has saved my life yet again. Or rather he can, if he accepts Mr. Abernathy’s arrangement. “It has, Mr. Mellark. Please, call me Katniss.”

“If you’ll call me Peeta.”

I nod, blushing, even though I don’t know why. I’m not sure if it’s proper, but I don’t question him.

“Okay, I’m not going to lie to you. Haymitch has been pushing me for several hours to accept this arrangement.”

Fear surges through me. I was right. He hasn't made up his mind yet. “If it’s the children, I can… I can...”  My voice trails off. What can I do? Leave them in the Seam to freeze and see them in the evenings? Or would he want me to live here, without them?

He shakes his head. “It’s not the children. It’s just… Never mind.” He looks at Ivy, who has just woken up and is looking around curiously. I fed her just before we left, so she’s probably not hungry quite yet. “Hi there, sweetie, what’s your name?” I’m surprised by Peeta's sudden change in demeanor, from reluctant and bitter to someone else entirely. Someone who smiles at my child.

I’m even more astonished to see my daughter smile back.

“Her name is Ivy,” I say. I don’t miss how he looks at her skinny little arm, but he does seem to connect with her, not only judge just how underfed she is. He looks up at me, narrows his eyes as he studies the features of my face, and then back down to her. “She looks like her mama.”

“We got one each," I say quietly. My words seem to change something in him. He retracts his hand, and his face seems to close up.

“Okay." He clears his throat as he takes two large steps back. "So I talked this over with Haymitch. What do you say to room and board for you and your children, and two hundred coins a month?”

I’m stunned, all I can do is open and close my mouth, unable to find any words. He wants to feed and shelter me and my children and pay me money? A lot of money, too. More than Gale made, even working 12-hour shifts in the mines.

Peeta misunderstands my lack of response, and keeps speaking. “And we’ll send some food for your sister and your mother as well, of course. How does that sound?” All I can do is nod. I’m overwhelmed. “Your responsibilities would be to keep the house clean. You'll cook, do the laundry... and perhaps help Haymitch with his geese from time to time.” He looks over at Haymitch with a devilish grin.

“That won’t be necessary,” Mr. Abernathy objects.

Peeta points a finger at Mr. Abernathy. “Yes, it is most definitely necessary." He turns back to me. "Do we have a deal?”

I finally find my voice back. “Yes.” My lips are dry. I really wonder what is going to be wrong about this arrangement, because surely _something_ has to be. This is too good to be true.

“Good. Let me show you your rooms.”

"Rooms?"

“They aren’t particularly clean. No one goes upstairs,” Peeta says apologetically, and I think there is a blush on his cheeks. Is he really ashamed of the state of his house? Has he forgotten that he just hired me to clean it? He leads me up the stairs and shows me two rooms, adjacent from each other. He doesn’t exaggerate – they aren’t clean. But still, I’ve never seen rooms this size before. Except maybe in Madge’s house, years ago. Before she was killed in the 74th Hunger Games. The same Hunger Games that Peeta won.

“It’s okay,” I say. “That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”

“Um, yes, I suppose that’s true,” he says. “One room for you, and one for the children. Or perhaps the baby still sleeps with you?”

"Yes, she does." They both do actually, because my mother only had one bedroom to spare after we had to move into her house. “It’s perfect.” I move over to the window. It's covered with dust. I wipe it with my hand and gaze out onto Victor's Village.

“Good.”

And then he leaves. I stand there, stunned, still looking out through the dirty window.

A few hours later, my mother arrives with Arrow and the rest of our belongings, which isn’t a lot. It's only one box. I decide to leave most of our things in my mother’s house. We won’t need cups, plates, or rugs. And our meager, worn items would be out of place in a victor's home anyway. They might even offend our host. The box in my mother's hands mostly contains our clothes, photos, a few toys, my father’s plant book and my old school books that Arrow will need soon. When I packed yesterday, I was once again reminded of how little I own.

I’ve had time to clean Arrow’s room. There’s a small light in his eyes when he sees it, but at the same time, he’s cautious. He’s known too much disappointment. But, children are adaptable. He’s a Seam boy, and I know from experience that they are resilient. I remind myself that he's his father's son as I watch him take his wooden train out of his backpack. Arrow doesn’t have a lot of toys, but the train is by far is favorite, because Gale made it for him. Gale used to take Arrow to the station to see the trains when they came in from the Capitol on Sundays, the only day when he was off work in the mines. Even though I knew Gale hated the Capitol and everything it stood for, he allowed himself that small pleasure, because his son loved looking at the trains.

I sigh in relief. _If Arrow’s playing, he will be fine_ , I tell myself.

“It’s… nice here,” my mother says slowly. She looks worried. She knows what my intentions were when I went out that night and came home with news of this arrangement. She must not understand the nature of my being here. “Will you be alright?”

I don’t have the chance to answer, because suddenly, Peeta is standing in the doorway, carrying a box in his arms. All of our belongings are already here, so I wonder what it is he's carrying. He looks down at Arrow, playing on the floor. His eyes meet mine for a moment before he approaches my son, and sits down next to him. He opens the box and wordlessly gestures for Arrow to look inside. Arrow looks cautiously at him, but curiosity wins out. When he sees what’s inside, his face lights up in a smile. The first real smile I’ve seen in months, except the one that night, when he first saw the bread. “Toys, Mama!”

“They're from when I was a little boy,” he says. I’m surprised any child from 12 had this many toys, an entire box full. He's from the Town, but still.

"A few years ago, my mother packed up all the toys that me and my brothers used to play with and I've been saving them ever since," he explains.

Arrow smiles as he pulls a figure out of the box. It's wooden and there are strings attached to the arms and feet. "What's this?"

"That's a marionette. Want me to show you how to use it?" Peeta asks. Arrow nods his head.

My mother and I watch silently as Peeta expertly makes the puppet walk across the floor, stop in front of Arrow and then wave. The small smile that was beginning to spread across Arrow's lips fades. He looks up at Peeta with his big grey eyes. “Who are you?” Arrow asks. He always looks so serious.

“I’m Peeta. Who are you?” He knows very well who the boy is, but he still asks him.

“I’m Arrow. I’m six and a half years old. How old are you?”

"How old do you think I am?"

"I don't know... You look older than Mama. But not that much."

Peeta smiles. Tiny wrinkles pull at the corners of his eyes. We're the same age, but Arrow's right. Peeta does look older. "It’s nice to meet you, Arrow.”

"Nice to meet you, too."

That night, after both Ivy and Arrow have finally fallen asleep in new beds that are unknown to them, I sink down and rest on the floor in the kitchen and lean against one of the cupboards. I’m exhausted. Only after Peeta gives me a cup of tea do I remember that I’ve forgotten to ask him if it’s okay that I’m here at night. Or should I retire to my room at some point? But I’m not sure what to say, so I don’t say anything. I’ve never been good at small talk or those phrases of courtesy that seem to come so easily to others.

“He’s the spitting image of his father,” Peeta says. I'm grateful he’s broken the silence.

I look up at him. My lips curl in a proud smile. “Yes, he is. I told you before. We got one each.”

“Yeah..." His smile falters again. Is he uncomfortable at my mentioning of Gale? “They're good children.” I nod. That’s easy to agree with. They are my children, after all. “I can see why you were willing to do _anything_ to save them.” I look down, biting my lip. “Yeah, Haymitch told me. Dammit, Katniss… Cray is a violent, twisted son of a bitch." I startle at the tone of his voice. He sounds angry. At me? Peeta huffs out a breath, and rolls his eyes. I don't think he meant to raise his voice to me. But his next words are quieter. "He could’ve hurt you. _Really_ hurt you.”

“Nothing he could’ve done to me would’ve hurt as much as seeing my children starve to death.” My voice is hollow. He nods, but doesn’t answer. He looks into his tea. “Thank you.” I blurt out the words without thinking. “I’m still not sure why you are doing this. I know you don’t have to. So I just wanted to say… thank you.”

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”

His indifference makes me angry. “Nothing? Saving my children’s lives is nothing to you? Or do you mean that it’s nothing compared to all the other Seam children who are starving to death as we speak?”

He looks up at me with surprise. This time I've startled him. There’s worry in his face now, his eyes dart to the walls. He presses a finger to his lips, and my eyes are locked with his. He shakes his head very slightly.

I frown, but then I understand. Be careful what you say. _Someone is listening._

We spend the next ten minutes together in silence, until I’ve finished my tea. When I go to bed, I'm restless.  Hours pass before I’m finally able to fall asleep.


	4. Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is at last! It took me a while to get this chapter right.
> 
> Thank you to Lbug84 for betaing!

Being able to feed my children, every day, in copious amounts, is overwhelming. My life has revolved around food for so long that thinking about anything else is difficult.

I watch my children change, day by day. Arrow smiles more and he’s a lot more active. The rose color returns to his cheeks and he's energetic enough to spend more time playing. Ivy has been hungry all her life, and now she’s finally able to put on some real weight. My milk becomes thicker and richer when my own diet improves, though it's not enough. But Ivy’s thankfully old enough to eat solid food too, which increases her weight more than my own starved body could on its own. She nurses almost continuously when she’s wrapped on my chest, as I work myself through the dirty hole that is Peeta Mellark’s home.

It’s not as bad as Haymitch’s house, and for that I’m grateful. But it seems like there is a decade’s worth of dust and grime in many of the rooms. There is only one room I’m not allowed to enter - the one at the end of the corridor, next to Peeta’s room. I don’t know what he keeps in there. When I asked him if wanted me to clean it, he just said it’s not necessary, and that he’ll keep the door locked to keep the children out. He spends a lot of time in there, though. Late at night, when he thinks that I’m asleep. Sometimes, he’ll spend an entire day in that room and he won’t even come out to eat.

His bedroom is a different, less scary kind of isolation. I hear him whimper in there at night. I was embarrassed at first, unsure of what the sounds meant. But then I realized that they were muffled sounds of fear, not pleasure. And that he’d probably be even more mortified if he knew that I’d overheard his... _nightmares_?

At least, I think they're nightmares.

 

* * *

 

 

When we’ve lived in the Victors’ Village for a week, I ask Peeta when I can I give some food to my mother and Prim’s family. He looks startled, as if he’d forgotten, but quickly nods. “Take as much as you need.” He ordered a generous amount of food after we moved in. Four people eat a lot more than only one, even though one of them is very little.

I look down, chewing on my lip. “Is it okay if I… give Gale’s family some extra food as well?” This was not part of our agreement, but I have to ask. Hazelle is my children’s grandmother, and she has always tried to help me, even though I did my best to hide from her how bad things were. I knew she had so very little herself. Rory and Vick have helped too, even though they both have hungry and rapidly growing families. I know they are all starving, while we have real butter on the table every night now. Actual yellow, real butter, with a taste so rich I actually had a dream about it one night.

“Um… of course. How many siblings did Gale have?”

“Three. Only his sister Posy still lives at home since she’s just 18.”

He nods. “Of course. I’ll order more food. It’s not a problem.” He looks down. “I know what it’s like to be hungry too, Katniss.” I open my mouth to say something, but he continues before I have the chance to. “I know what you’re going to say. Starving for 16 days in the Hunger Games isn’t the same as starving for half your life, or watching your children starve. I just wanted you to know that I’ve been hungry, too. Even though I’m from a merchant family, I'm from 12 too.”

I smile softly at him, and let his words settle into my mind.

 

* * *

 

 

It's a cool spring morning. Before taking Arrow to school, I stuff a backpack full of foods that are fresh, salt cured meats, butter and pickled vegetables, but that will keep for a little while in the Seam. The children and I are just clearing the threshold of the front door when Peeta puts on his jacket and shoes. “Mind if I take a walk with you?” He asks me.

I shake my head 'no,' but I can't hide my confusion. Peeta pretends not to notice as he takes the backpack from my hands and slings it over his shoulder. It’s full and quite heavy for me, but he lifts it as if it’s weightless. I suppose he grew up carrying all those heavy flour sacks in the bakery.  And I think he used to be on the wrestling team when we were in school.

We walk in silence, while Arrow excitedly tells us about his project at school. It is, unsurprisingly, about coal. Peeta doesn’t seem to know that much about coal or mining. I guess because being merchant meant he was pretty certain he’d never have to work down there. Or maybe it's because his education was cut short at 16 years old. He never did return to school after his Games. Either way, Arrow is excited when he can explain things to Peeta that he doesn’t know ...or maybe he does know.

I don’t know if he's faking. I don’t know him well enough to tell.

When Arrow is tired of talking about coal and runs ahead of us to look at some animal tracks crossing the road, Peeta turns to me.

“I talked to my brother Bannock last night. He runs the bakery now. Prim and Hazelle can go to the bakery to get bread, free of charge. But it’s best if they come to the back door, and perhaps talk to Bannock in advance. Schedule it or something, so my mother doesn’t find out. Does that sound ok?”

“Peeta, that’s…” I’m speechless. It takes me a few seconds to be able to respond. “Who’s paying for it?”

He cocks an eyebrow. “The Capitol. Through their very generous yearly payments to the Victor of the 74th Hunger Games.”

“Is that why you…” My voice trails off. "Are _they_ listening to us here, too?" I look at the road, still covered by snow even though it's spring. I don’t know if it’s possible that they could be listening in on us here. Is it?

Peeta purses his lips before answering. He speaks slowly and clearly, and I know his words are important. “Snow already knows I’m sending your family food, because we've discussed it in the house."

"President Snow?"

"Yes. He keeps a close eye on Victors."

"I see." I want to ask why... But the words die on my tongue.

"I don’t want them to know just _how much_ food we’re sending, just to be safe. There shouldn't be a problem. They usually don't care much what I do here in 12, as long as I fulfill my mentoring duties, attend the right parties and… well, in general, do as I’m told. But it never hurts to be careful.”

“Should I be careful too, Peeta?” Arrow asks, very serious now. He’s tired of looking at the animal tracks and is now walking with us again. I didn't know he was listening. But, I wonder how much he understands. Probably too much.

I know I’ll have to bend the truth, so I don’t scare him. But I can't flat-out lie. He needs to learn to keep quiet. “You have nothing to worry about. There are just some things it’s better not to talk about. Not at home, and not at school. It’s never safe to say anything bad about the Capitol or the things they do. Okay?”

“Daddy used to say bad things about the Capitol.”

Our house wasn’t bugged. We could say anything we wanted, as long as we did it in the privacy of our home. Those days are over, though. That life is gone. I swallow hard. “Daddy did, Arrow. He said bad things about the Capitol, and he meant them. But you must never repeat what he said. Keep those thoughts and feelings _inside_. The Capitol doesn’t like it when people say bad things about them.”

“Do people have to go to jail if they say bad things about the Capitol?”

I wonder how he came to that conclusion. “Yes, they can.” Or worse. Much worse.

"I won't say anything, mommy. I'll make you proud."

His words feel like a stab in the chest. My child censoring his thoughts and feelings would never make me proud. But I smile softly at him, because he so badly wants my approval.

We’re closer to town when Peeta's pace slows. The old and thankfully unused whipping post has just come into view when he stops completely. “I should get home,” Peeta says. I wonder if he has any specific plans back home, or if he just doesn’t want anyone in town to see us together. “Go by the bakery to get some bread from Bannock. He’s expecting you. Oh, and stop by Mr. Hanson’s shop on the way, too. He has some stuff for you too.” He gives me the backpack, says goodbye to the three of us, and turns back towards the Victors’ Village.

I drop off Arrow at school first which is, thankfully, uneventful. He hugs me goodbye, kisses Ivy on the forehead and walks into school with his head held higher than I've ever seen.

I try not to berate myself as I walk to Mr Hanson’s shop. It's the closest to the school on the way to the Seam. I haven’t been here in months. I stopped going when there was simply no more money to buy food for, and he wouldn’t give store credit. Mr. Hanson never gives anyone store credit. He can’t. The Seam is full of starving families with little or no money.

There is a tiny bell that rings when someone opens the door. The sound makes my stomach growl, even though I just ate. Mr. Hanson looks up when he sees me, and he smiles. He’s never smiled at me before. “Mrs. Hawthorne!” he greets me.

I smile nervously. “Mr. Hanson. It’s nice to meet you.”

He makes small talk, to my amazement. He never has before. Somehow, working for Peeta Mellark has, in his eyes, transformed me from being another poor Seam housewife to someone he finds it acceptable to have a conversation with.

Something feels odd, though. I don’t know if it’s the way he looks at me, or his words. He compliments me on my hair and says Ivy, who’s sleeping on my chest, is such a “treasure.” I try to be polite and say the right things at the right places, but I’m not very good at it. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“Mr. Mellark told me to give you this,” he says. He gives me a large, heavy paper bag. “He told me to tell you to read the instructions. There’s something for the children as well.” I smile, wondering just what is in the bag. I don’t want to seem too eager, though, so I don’t open it in front of him. I politely dodge the rest of the conversation and make my way out of the door before he keeps me there, talking all damn morning.

I go to the Mellark Bakery. It’s only four buildings down from Hanson’s shop, and also on the way to the Seam. Bannock is behind the counter today, and I smile at him as I enter the shop. I haven’t seen him in years, but he recognizes me immediately. “Katniss!” He greets me with a big smile. He has a bag full of bread ready for me. “Peeta told me to give you this.”

“Thank you,” I answer, desperately twisting my brain for something polite to say, but I can’t come up with anything.

“Peeta told me you’re his housekeeper now?” I nod. “I have to tell you I was pretty surprised. We haven’t seen much of him these last few years. He’s been isolating himself in the Victors’ Village with Haymitch. Rye and I have been worried about him.”

I don’t know how to answer that. After living in Peeta’s house for a week, I’m starting to see just how lonely Peeta's life in 12 is. Even though he has two brothers who live not ten minutes away. I don’t think it’s only about Peeta isolating himself from his family. I suspect his brothers haven’t exactly reached out to him, either.

But that’s not something I’m about to tell someone who’s giving me bread for my starving family. Instead, I smile politely and mutter something I hope he can’t hear. "Yeah, the house is really dirty."

“We’re so glad it’s you.” I furrow my brow, not understanding. _We_? Who are “ _we_ ”? And why would _they_ be glad that it’s _me_? Bannock must see my confusion, and suddenly he looks nervous. As if he’s said too much. He clears his throat, looking down at the floor

“I, uh… I have to go,” I finally say, to end the long, uncomfortable silence. “Thank you so much for the bread.”

 

* * *

 

I go to Prim’s house first, but she’s not at home. She had twins three years ago, and now they’re getting old enough to entertain themselves at least for a little while without being an immediate danger to themselves or others. Prim has started going on patient visits together with my mother again. She brings the twins, and stays until they have a meltdown. It’s difficult, but Prim wants to learn, and this is the only way. It’s important for 12, too. My mother is the only healer, and she isn’t getting any younger. There is a formally trained Capitol doctor as well, but his services are too expensive for all but the wealthier townies and the peacekeepers.

Hazelle is at home, though. She still runs a laundry service for rich merchant families, and Tuesday is her ironing day. I knock on the door, and a moment later she appears, an iron still in hand.  “Katniss!” In a second she’s embraced me and Ivy. I enter the house. Her kitchen is already scorching hot, from the coal in the irons, as I follow her inside. Gale and I became hunting partners and allies the year I was 12. When we gradually became friends, too, I started frequenting his house. Throughout most of my teenage and adult years, I’ve been closer to Hazelle than to my own mother.

Hazelle looks thin, pale and worried. The wrinkles around her eyes have become deeper.

“I brought food,” I tell her, lowering the backpack on the floor. “Will you divide this between you, Rory and Vick’s families? And give some to Prim and mother, too? Prim wasn’t at home when I stopped by her house.”

“Of course.” There are tears in her eyes when she opens the backpack and sees the contents. She takes out a glass jar of pickled beets stare at them incredulously. “Oh, Katniss… Does _he_ know?”

“That I’m giving you food?” She nods. “Yes, of course.”

"And he feels your _services_ are worth all of this?" Her voice is hesitant.

"My _services_?" I’m momentarily speechless. Hazelle thinks that my _services_ extend beyond housekeeping. She’s my mother-in-law. I’m still wearing the wedding ring her son gave me, the one that was made from gold that was originally her own wedding ring. Before she herself became a widow as her husband died in the same mining accident as my father. What she must have gone through this last week, thinking that her son’s widow had… “It’s not like that,” I tell her, in a rushed voice. “Peeta has so much, and he said that it was okay. He understands that you are my family, too.”

She nods her head, and we don't discuss it further. Though I can tell there are still questions unanswered.

While Hazelle sifts through the backpack, I go through the contents of the bags that Mr. Hanson gave me. It's an assortment of raw protein bars, vitamin supplements, some fruit and even small squares of dark chocolate. I haven’t had chocolate since my father bought me a bar for my 11th birthday. I plan to share this with Arrow when I pick him up from school. “Peeta said you can get bread from the bakery. Contact Bannock Mellark, and please be discreet.”

She gives me another hug. I can feel her shoulders shaking, she must be crying. "You were a daughter to me long before you married Gale.” I nod. I know. “How are you? With… everything?”

She releases me, but I take her hand. “I miss him. I miss him, every second of every day.” My voice cracks. It’s hard to get the words out.

“I do, too.” She sounds so tired. Hazelle has aged so much this winter. She lost her eldest son. Even with the fear I’ve felt for my children’s lives since Gale died, I still can’t imagine the horror of actually losing a child. “I wish he had a grave. Somewhere I could go.”

I hug her again. “Where his body rests doesn't matter,” I whisper. “He’s here, can’t you feel it?" They never got him out. Gale's body will remain in the mountain. I know he hated the mines, and at first, knowing that his body would be trapped in the darkness forever was almost unbearable. But Gale is gone. He's escaped. Only the shell is left in the mountain. And soon that shell will be nothing more than the dust that covers the Seam.

“When it gets warmer, we’ll find a nice spot by the river. We’ll make it his place, perhaps find a nice stone and put it there? One that’s gray, the same shade as his eyes. And we can plant flowers and take the children so they can play in the grass and talk to their father. He loved the woods so much.” We spent many long summer evenings down by the river, Gale and I, before Arrow was born.

She nods. “I’d like that.”

We stand in silence together for a while. Finally, I release her.

“I have to get back to work,” I tell her.

“So do I,” she sighs, and I cringe just looking at the mountain of clothes she needs to iron. But it keeps her alive.  We all do what we need to do to stay alive.

 

* * *

 

As the weeks pass, Peeta and I gradually fall into a routine, which surprisingly becomes comfortable. I bring Arrow to school every day, but it’s mainly because I like to get some fresh air. I know he could walk to school safely without me. But there are no other children in Victor's Village that he could walk with.

Ivy is going to learn to crawl soon. She’s already slithering on her stomach, crossing the floor surprisingly quickly, and I realize I will soon have quite a lot of work on my hands. She’s put on so much weight. This morning, when I changed her diaper, I noticed that she has actual creases on her thighs. She is a natural born charmer, too -  a combination of Prim and Gale. I’m sure I’ll have a hard time keeping the boys away from her. She’s got Peeta wrapped around her little finger in record time, and she knows it. I’m a bit hesitant about having him interact with my children. I’m not sure what’s appropriate and I already feel as if we’re intruding in his home. But Peeta never seems bothered. Not even when they are both crying at the same time.

Peeta drinks a lot, though. Mostly at night, which is a relief, because it makes it easier for me to protect the children from it. He’s never loud or difficult in any way when he’s drunk, but he’s still _drunk_. When he does drink during the day, I have to come up with excuses, both for Peeta and for Arrow, for why he can’t be around the children. It’s exhausting.

We never speak of anything that is too personal. Neither of us is very talkative anyway. Yet we somehow are learning to live together. The adjustments he has to make, are bigger. We are three, he is only one. Besides, I’m used to sharing a house with a man. Peeta is used to living alone. His only visitor is Haymitch, who sometimes comes by for breakfast.

We talk about routines, chores, or the weather. He never asks about my past, and I never ask about his. It’s a tacit agreement. Gradually, I allow him to spend more time with the children, even unsupervised, if only for a few minutes.

 

* * *

 

 It's Saturday, and Prim and the twins are here to visit. Even though they are four years younger, Arrow really enjoys playing with them. Peeta isn’t at home – I have no idea where he is. He never tells me where he’s going, and I never ask, even though I have started asking him when he plans to return home, so that I can have dinner ready. I’m relieved he’s not at home now, though, as the boys are running after each other through the living room, and the noise is deafening.

Prim looks tired, but smiles as she sees the boys playing. I know she’s under a lot of pressure, with the twins, working with my mother and the constant lack of food. She’s holding Ivy on her lap, tickling her feet. 

“She looks better already,” Prim says. I’m not surprised she noticed. It’s her job, after all.

“It’s incredible what food can do, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Thank you so much for…” I know what’s about to come. I quickly shake my head, sending her a warning glance. She frowns, clearly not understanding.

“Never mind that. It’s okay.”

She sends me a strange look, but doesn’t comment on it. Prim’s been in a lot of houses in 12. She’s probably learned when to talk, when to shut up, and when to change the subject, which she does. “So… how's the job?”

“It’s okay. I mean it's good. It’s a bit strange, though. Living in such a big house. And with Peeta-”

“ _Peeta_? You call him Peeta?”

“Yeah.” I almost blush. “I don’t even know him and now I live in his house, with the children and… Well, he certainly needs a housekeeper. This place was a mess.” I roll my eyes, trying to lighten the mood.

“I uh… wondered if there was anything _else_ involved in the agreement.” She looks uneasy.

I frown. But I could see how she’d think that, considering how I myself misunderstood Haymitch’s intentions that first night. It’s not a large step to extend that thought to Peeta.

“No, of course not!” I clear my throat. “Is that what everyone thinks?” _Everyone_ didn’t really have any strong opinions on my morals as long as I was just another Seam wife. But now that I moved into Victor's Village, suddenly, I’m different from them.

Prim shrugs. “It’s not as if _everyone_ tells me what they think about my sister and her living arrangements,” she says dryly, and I know she’s right. Though if people thought I was sleeping in Peeta’s bed, Prim wouldn’t be the first to hear it. “Just be careful, okay?” I nod. “I remember him from school,” she continues. “He was always so popular, he always looked happy. He had so many friends. He used to smile at me every time he passed me in the hallway, did you know that?” I shake my head. Peeta didn’t smile at me. Ever. He’d always look flustered, if he met my gaze at all. Most of the time, he’d only look down at the floor.

“That was a long time ago,” I say.

“Yes,” she agrees. “He’s changed so much. It’s hard to imagine that the sour-looking, inebriated victor we see on the street now is the same person as the blond, cheerful school boy.”

“He must’ve been through a lot since then. With the Hunger Games and…”

“Do you think it’s just the Hunger Games?” She interrupts me. I furrow my brow, confused. “Because I’m not so sure. I remember what he was like after he had just returned from winning the Games. He did look different from before he was reaped, yes, and that is to be expected, I guess, but… he didn’t look the way he does now.”

I hadn’t thought about that. “Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know.” Prim looks down. “I just think there must be something else, something more. Something more than just the Games. What I’m trying to say, is that I want you to be careful, because he’s not the happy merchant boy he used to be.”

She doesn't say any more, heeding my previous warning. There’s an awkward silence. The twins are fighting over something in the living room, and Prim goes to try to break them up. Peeta chooses this exact moment of utter chaos to come home.

“Who’s killing whom?” he asks, nodding in the direction of the living room, where the shrieking has reached a maximum, as Prim tries to convince Thomas and Ridge that they can in fact share Arrow’s toy train.

“I think it could end up becoming a double murder,” I answer, and Peeta actually smiles at me. I rarely see him smile, except at Ivy.

“I have two older brothers,” he says. “I know everything about brothers beating the crap out of you.”

Prim returns to the kitchen. “Well, in this case the brothers are the same size,” she sighs. “I think it helps. Or maybe not.”

Peeta smiles to her. “Prim,” he says. “It’s been a long time. I can’t believe you’ve outgrown your pigtails.”

She laughs. “That was, what – 14 years and two children ago?”

Peeta’s smile fades.

  

* * *

 

 I've finally claimed a spot on the couch, after cleaning the dishes from dinner, when Peeta surprises me by breaking our usual silence. He’s drinking white liquor, but he seems to keep the amount under control tonight. I’m drinking a cup of tea and reading a book about plants.

“It was nice to see Prim today,” he says. “I never get visitors, so it was nice to see… someone else.”

“Your brothers don’t come to visit you?” I don’t ask about his mother.

He shakes his head. “No, we… don’t interact much. It’s easier that way.”

“Easier how?”

“We’ve… grown apart. Too much has happened. They can’t understand what it’s like.” His eyes are dark.

I put my book down. “I guess no one who hasn’t been in the Hunger Games can understand,” I say. “I mean, I can say that I do, but…” My voice trails off. “I think it’s like any other loss. You can’t know what it’s like unless you’ve lived through it yourself.” 

“I suppose.” He pauses. “How do _you_ live with it?”

I don’t have to ask him what he means. I hesitate. How do I live with it? The truth is that I don't live with it yet, not truly. “I guess I just go with the motions,” I admit. “One day at a time.” I try not to think too much. That’s the main reason I’m able to get out of bed in the morning at all. I look up at him. “I think you understand. You know about loss.” I say softly.

He looks startled. “I… um, yeah. I guess.” He looks uncomfortable now. I’m afraid I’ve gone too far. That we’ve suddenly become too personal. But it must be true. That look in his eyes… Yes, he has lost someone.  I try to think back to his Games. But it was so long ago, the details come back slowly.

His hands don’t seem to be able to keep still. They are nervously playing with his now empty glass. I’ve never seen him like this before.

I’ve also never noticed his hands before, either. They are large and mostly smooth. His fingertips are calloused, though. That must be from baking. I think I remember him getting a gash on the back of his left hand in the Hunger Games. A fight with one of his supposed allies, if memory serves. But I can’t see any scar there now, which is odd. The wound was so big. He flexes his fingers and I can't stop staring. I feel my cheeks burning. I force my gaze up and find that he’s watching me watch him from the corner of his eye. I look away. 

We don’t talk for the rest of the night, and I retire early to bed. For some reason, I’m unable to get the image of his hands out of my head. I wonder what those hands would feel like. If they would feel different from Gale’s. Gale's hands were full of scars, too, from the mines and the woods. As I realize what I’ve just been thinking actually _means_ , I feel like the worst person in the world.

I cry myself to sleep.

 

* * *

 

When I wake up, there is no sign of Peeta. He doesn’t come down for breakfast, like he usually does. I leave a plate on the table as I take Arrow to school, in case Peeta wakes up before I get back.

But on my way home, I’m surprised to meet Peeta in town. Drunk. At 8 in the morning. I wonder where he’s been all night, but I force the thought away. It’s none of my business. I’m glad Ivy is sleeping – she’s only a baby, but I still don’t want her to witness this. There are people in the streets, and I can feel their looks and hear their laughter.

“Let’s go home, Peeta,” I say to him, calmly but firmly, my voice not really giving him any choice in the matter. “Breakfast is waiting for you.”

I’m careful to keep a respectable distance between us, even though the road is icy and he could probably need a steadying hand. But too many are watching, and besides, with Ivy on my chest, I have to prioritize staying on my own feet, not saving a drunken Victor from falling.

He doesn’t, though.

“What set you off this time?” I ask him when we’re on the road to the Victors’ Village, finally away from the curious eyes. I’ve lived long enough in his house now to understand that these binges, much worse than his day-to-day drinking, are set off by something. The first time it was a phone call from his mother, the second it was a mandatory Capitol special about the Hunger Games.

He doesn’t answer at first, and I wonder whether he heard me. I open my mouth to repeat my questions when he finally speaks.  “Loss.”

“Oh.” 

“Have you ever thought that… life wasn’t worth living, Katniss?” His words take me aback. I stop short, and so does he. I look up at him, and his blood-shot eyes are surprisingly clear. They are so incredibly blue, yet they burn with a fire I've never seen in them before.

“No,” I answer honestly. I’ve been too busy struggling to stay alive, for so many years, that I’ve never considered _not_ living. “I’ve been too hungry.”  These are dangerous words, perhaps, but I feel relatively certain we’re not being watched here.

“I suppose.”

We walk in silence for a few minutes. His shoulders are slumped, and if I had asked him to walk in a straight line, he couldn’t have done it to save his life. He looks so old, much older than I’ve ever seen him.

“Do you remember the bread?” he suddenly asks.

I take a sharp intake of breath. “Yes,” I answer. How could I ever forget? “I’m more surprised that you do.”

“Why?” I can feel his burning eyes on me, but I keep my own fixed on the road ahead of us.

“Because… To me, it meant the difference between life and death. To you, it was just some loaves of burned bread.” I pause. “And a beating from your mother.”

I look up at him. He rolls his eyes. “Well, there’s been more than a few of those.” I shiver. I know it’s true. I noticed the bruises and black eyes that Peeta kept coming to school with. Everyone did. He blamed it on wrestling, but none of the other wrestlers ever had that many bruises.

“Did the bread actually save your life? Was it really that bad?”

“Yes,” I murmur, my cheeks burning. It still hurts to think about it. My mother’s betrayal. How close we all came to dying. It took me years to forgive my mother. And even still, there are days when I have a hard time being around her.

He curses under his breath. “If I’d known it was that bad, I would’ve…”

I shake my head. “You were a child, Peeta. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

“Doesn’t excuse being a coward, though.”

“What makes you think you’re a coward?”

“I watched you wither away at school, but I did nothing. When I saw you under a tree in the rain, barely living, what did I do? I didn’t have the decency to invite you in, or even go over to you and give you some loaves of bread. No, instead I burned the bread on purpose and threw it at you, as if you were an animal.”

He saved my life, yet he judges himself so harshly. “Peeta… Please don’t. I owe you so much already. Don’t make it sound like what you did wasn’t enough. Because it was, okay? You saved us. You’ve done it twice now. I’ll never stop owing you.”

He shakes his head slowly. “No, you don’t owe me, Katniss. If anything, it’s the other way around.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about. I want to ask him, even though I’m not sure if I’ll actually want to hear his answer. But we’re home now, and I don’t want to have this conversation when someone is listening.

He stumbles inside, and disappears into the bathroom, where I hear him vomit violently into the toilet. Then he stumbles upstairs. I listen for his footsteps. I’m relieved when I hear the door to his bedroom close and not the door at the end of the corridor.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. The baker's son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lbug84 for betaing and always keeping me in check - and to chelziebelle for prereading and being my own personal grammar maven!

 

 

When was the last time I lived in the same house as another human being? It must’ve been before I was reaped. That was 14 long years ago.

It may as well have been another life.

It’s hard to get used to all the sounds. Not that Katniss’s children are all that noisy. When I think about the way I used to fight with my brothers when we were little, Arrow is rather quiet by comparison. Although Ivy is only a baby, she really doesn’t cry a lot. I was under the impression that babies cry all the time. Maybe because that’s what my mother told me I did when I was a baby, I don’t know. Either way, having people in the house means that there are a lot more sounds than I’m used to.

I don’t speak  with Katniss much. I’m not sure what to say to her, or what the safe topics are. The past is tricky, although we _have_ brought it up a couple of times. She's recently lost her husband, so that is obviously a touchy subject, and the two of us never really had a past. Katniss and I never shared anything but a memory of bread, rain, hunger, and a beating from my mother.

The rest of the memories are mine, not hers, because she never noticed me. Like the memory of a five-year-old girl with two braids instead of one, who sang the Valley Song. When she did, I can swear that the birds stopped singing  to listen to her. From that moment on, I was a goner.

I remember a tiny Seam girl, the very kind of girl my mother used to view with great suspicion whenever they stepped into the bakery. The girls she would speak disparagingly about as soon as they were out the door. The dark, olive-skinned girls with bony legs and gray or dark brown eyes, freckles on their noses, and delicate cheekbones.

Never in my five years of life had I seen a girl who was as beautiful as Katniss Everdeen. She didn’t have a lot of friends, but she would hang out with Madge Undersee at lunch. I thought it was odd that the Mayor’s pretty daughter, who could’ve been friends with anyone, would prefer the company of the poor, quiet Seam girl. I always thought that Madge, too, must have seen that there was something about Katniss. Something special.

I never dared to talk to her. Talking to Seam girls wasn’t socially acceptable for good merchant boys like me, who were closely controlled by their mothers. Only later, when we got older, would it be acceptable (although still not to their mothers) to take the Seam girls to the slag heap to fuck them. I’d never do that to Katniss, of course. Not before the reaping, because the last thing I wanted was for our first time together to be on the slag heap. She deserved so much more.

Not that she would want me, anyway.

And when I returned from the Hunger Games, there was Gale Hawthorne. I knew, of course, that he and Katniss had been hunting partners and friends for years. I'd seen them after school, when he would follow her home or watch as they would slip off to the woods together.

She seemed oblivious to it, but I noticed. I noticed how, sometime during the winter of the year she turned 16, Gale looked at her differently. I recognized it because it takes one to know one: A boy, or a man, who is hopelessly in love with Katniss Everdeen.

The realization made me so jealous it scared me. I had no idea I could harbor feelings that dark. I would imagine Gale touching her, kissing her, or even just talking to her, and I would be consumed with red-hot rage. I imagined myself getting into a fist-fight with him. Obviously I’d win, and after, Katniss would look adoringly at me and tell me that she had never wanted to kiss Gale, and she'd thank me for saving her. And then she’d kiss _me_ instead. When I snapped out of my daydreams, I always felt deeply ashamed of myself. Katniss Everdeen wasn’t mine, and if I'd actually done that – gotten into a fight with Gale – she certainly wouldn’t have thanked me after. She would've hated me. My only consolation was that Katniss didn’t seem to be in love with Gale. She didn’t seem to notice the way any of the boys at school looked at her.

When I told Caesar Flickerman – and all of Panem  - about the girl I’d had a crush on for years, I never actually expected to come home to her. I was certain I’d die in the arena. Haymitch’s plan was unprecedented in the history of the Hunger Games, that a tribute from 12 would team up with the careers. And not only that, but that the careers would do it not because they wanted to take advantage of a particular skill I had, like they did with the boy from 3 who knew how to re-arm the landmines. Instead, they did it because the careers have been known to hold their strongest enemies close, until most of the contestants are gone. Then they turn on each other. _We_ turn on each other. That’s the way it usually goes. That’s the way things went in my Games. Now that I’ve mentored for so many years, I’ve come to see how predictable most Hunger Games are. I didn’t die because I beat the careers at their own game. They knew I was physically strong, but they didn’t know I had it in me to be just as murderous as they were. Their underestimation became their downfall.

On the train  back home, the only thing that kept me going was the thought of seeing Katniss again. I remembered what Caesar said - that if I won the Hunger Games, the girl I was in love with would _have_ to go out with me. I dreamed of finally approaching Katniss. I would ask her to take a walk with me. Perhaps I could cook her dinner, in my new, large house in Victors’ Village. I finally had the courage to tell her how I felt about her. It wasn’t quite clear to me what would happen after. Would she kiss me? Would she tell me she felt the same way? The memory of her smile, which I had seen only rarely but could never forget, helped get me through the dark, sleepless nights on the train.

I came back to 12 at the end of the summer with blood on my hands that I never seemed to be able to wash away. I found out that in my absence, life in 12 continued without me. And something between Katniss and Gale had clearly shifted during those long summer days. Perhaps even during the summer nights, although I tried not to think about that. I could not be mistaken. Gale and Katniss walked hand in hand. They kissed shyly, when Katniss didn’t think anyone could see them, and when Gale thought everyone could. He was so obviously proud of his beautiful girlfriend, and seeing the two of them together was almost more than I could bear.

I had half a mind to compete for her attention. Gale was a poor miner. I was a Victor. I could provide for her in a way that he never would. But I quickly realized that Gale had something I didn’t. He was free. Free of nightmares. Free of the Capitol – at least as free as anyone in 12 could be. When I returned to the Capitol two months after becoming a Victor, President Snow sold my body for the first time. Finnick, Cashmere and Gloss adopted me into their group of Victors turned prostitutes. I learned from them – what to do, from Finnick and Cashmere, and what not to do from stories of Johanna.

When I came home from the Capitol, feeling decades older than I had when I left 12, I decided that I could never bring Katniss into my new life. I’d heard whispered stories  about Annie, and had a few hushed conversations with Finnick over a late-night drink. I knew I could never subject Katniss to the fate of constantly being a target. I couldn’t do it to myself, for that matter. I saw Finnick’s tears of devastation. I couldn’t give Snow even more people to use against me.

The only way to keep Katniss safe was to stay away from her. To forget her. Staying away was easy, but forgetting was harder. Time helped somewhat, along with alcohol and drugs.

There were renewed stabs of pain, from time to time. Most notably seeing their wedding photo in the newspaper, when she became the miner's wife. I barely slept for a week after that. But when her belly started to swell, after nearly five years of marriage, was when I truly realized I’d lost her. I was numbed by mentoring and my other duties in the Capitol by then, but I still drank myself half to death that night.

Seeing Katniss’s baby wrapped on her chest as I passed her on the street, the spitting image of his father, was too much. I voluntarily traveled the Capitol for the first time after that.

When Katniss became pregnant with her second child, what was left of my heart had almost stopped hurting. I wondered why she and Gale would have so few children, and so many years apart. Most houses in the Seam seemed to be bursting with dirty, scrawny children that their parents could barely feed. I supposed I should be happy for her, that she didn’t. But happy was a word I’d stopped thinking of in the same sentence as Katniss Hawthorne.

She seemed happy, though. Tired, and probably hungry at times. But every time I passed her on the streets of the Seam, as I made my way to the Hob to buy white liquor for Haymitch and myself, she seemed… content.

There were a million reasons why I didn’t try to help Katniss immediately after Gale died; each and every one of them were selfish. I didn’t agree to employ her until Haymitch finally told me how he had run into her that night. I instinctively knew that Katniss Everdeen – or Katniss Hawthorne – would never go so far as selling her body to Cray if she wasn’t desperate. There was no way I could allow that old bastard to touch her. Just the thought of it filled me with anger.

When they first stepped into my house and I saw Ivy’s thin little body for the first time, it made me feel sick inside. I could’ve done something sooner to prevent it. Yet I chose to do nothing.

 

* * *

 

 Even though I thought that I understood Katniss, I realize, now that she has moved into my house, that I don’t actually _know_ her at all. It makes me feel like a fool. I have spent more than two decades pining over this woman who I actually _don’t know_. How pathetic is that?

And how do you suddenly deal with  having a woman you’ve loved from afar for so long move into your house? When she is burdened by grief and responsibility? Not to mention that her two children move in, too. I have no idea. She’s not the little girl in pigtails anymore. Even back then, when we were in the same class, I never talked to her. How could I even begin to think that I know her now?

I have a feeling she's not a natural born housewife. I’m sure that if given a choice, she’d prefer to be out hunting in the woods, not cleaning windows. But she does a good job, and within weeks, the house is transformed from a hole into something that’s actually quite… nice. It feels lived in, in a way it hasn’t before.

I know, of course, that it’s because of them, not because of me.

After the children are in bed, we sit in what I one night realize is a companionable silence. She reads a book, or mends the children’s clothes. I’ll pretend to read, drinking tea that's mostly white liquor, while I try to keep myself from staring at her. Even at night, tired from the activities of the day, with dark circles under her eyes from staying up with Ivy and with her braid partly undone, she’s so beautiful.

I take a lot of late-night showers, desperately hoping the sounds of the falling water will drown out my moans and the strangled whispers of her name when I come. I try to take care of it in a detached, almost mechanical way, as I’m used to from the Capitol, but I _can't_.

She must never find out.

 

* * *

 

 Ivy is the cutest baby I’ve ever seen, with her dark curly hair and two teeth in her lower jaw. I know I may be biased, since she looks so much like Katniss. I’ve never really had anything to do with children that age, being the youngest myself, and I’m surprised by how much personality there is in such a small body. She’s so uniquely her own person already, even though she can’t even talk yet. Katniss was understandably reluctant to let me interact with Ivy at first, but she seemed to relax after a few short weeks. I think Ivy actually _likes_ me. She’ll smile that big smile of hers whenever she sees me coming through the door, and she’ll hold out her little arms, wanting me to pick her up. It makes me happy and grateful in a way that I never expected. Ivy is ticklish and loves her yellow ball. Her favorite food is banana. There is nothing in this world she loves more than when her older brother plays with her, but it's not long before I become a good second choice in the playmate department.

I genuinely like Arrow,  though he looks so much like his father it makes my stomach twist. I see what a great job Katniss is doing with him. Gale, too, for that matter. Arrow talks about his father a lot, and Katniss never stops him. She encourages him, telling stories about Gale that Arrow hasn't heard before. Even though they are, of course, for his benefit, the stories give me glimpses  into her life as well. She chooses her words carefully, making sure she never says anything that directly betrays that she and Gale were outside  the fence, but knowing how she survived when she was a teenager, it’s clear she’s  telling Arrow about when they were hunting illegally. She tells her son  about squirrels and wild plants, of freedom and swimming.  At first I thought they were swimming in the river, but as I listen to her speak, I realize  they must have been in a lake outside the fence that I didn’t even know existed. There are more innocent stories, too, that don’t involve offenses punishable by death. She talks about the time Gale jumped off the roof of his mother’s house into a snow bank, which wasn’t as deep as he’d thought, and almost broke his leg. She smiles as she speaks about the long winter evenings spent by the fire when Gale made Arrow his toy train.

I have to leave the room when she tells Arrow about how proud Gale was when his son was born. It’s been nearly seven years, but I still can’t deal with the memory of seeing Katniss’s baby for the first time, knowing that he wasn’t mine. I spend the rest of the day trying to avoid the  three of them. And instead of sitting in the usual companionable silence with Katniss at night, I go to Haymitch’s house and drink myself into oblivion. I make it back to my own bed at three in the morning, if only just.

 

* * *

 

 I’m awoken by Ivy’s laughter and the bright spring sunshine spilling through the window. I forgot to pull down the blinds last night. I stumble downstairs, desperately needing a hair of the dog that bit me to start feeling human again. I go to the kitchen and find that Katniss and Ivy are already there. Ivy is lying on a blanket on the floor, while Katniss does the dishes, and Ivy squeals when she sees me. I smile, but when I reach out my arms for her, Katniss stops me. “Not when you’ve been drinking,” she says. She eyes me warily,  looking tense. She reminds me of the cat we had when I was a little boy that my parents kept to hunt mice. Every time she had a litter, she’d get that same look whenever we tried to approach her kittens. She had every reason to; my mother would invariably kill every single kitten as soon as she could locate them.

I curse, and Katniss parts her lips slightly in shock, but  stands her ground. Her eyes don’t leave mine for one single second.

I leave the house instead of confronting her, slamming the door behind me. I hear Ivy crying, and feel guilty for scaring her.

Having been effectively chased out of my own  home, I go to the only other place I can think of: Haymitch’s house. He’s sitting on the couch, watching some Capitol talk show. Why he’d ever want to see that crap is beyond me, and by the looks of it, he’s already well into his first bottle of the day. Or perhaps it’s his last, since Haymitch doesn’t like to sleep when it’s dark. He probably didn’t go to bed after I left last night.

“Tired of domestic bliss already?” he guffaws when he sees me, but my face must betray my anger,  so he pours me a drink.

“Fuck you, Haymitch.”

“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.” I roll my eyes. I remember seeing the tapes of his Games. Haymitch was ruggedly handsome, in that Seam way of his. He could’ve commanded a pretty hefty price in his day, if only Snow hadn’t made the big mistake of killing off everyone he loved first, eliminating any leverage the Capitol had over the young, fierce Victor.

I tell Haymitch about Katniss and what she just told me – in my own house – and even I can hear that I’m whining. Pathetic. Haymitch laughs so hard he swallows his liquor wrong, and has a bad fit of coughing. When he’s finally able to speak again, he points a finger at me. “It’s about time someone told you off. I knew she was the only one who could.”

“Why do you even care? Look at you! You’re a damn drunk. You’re worse than I am.”

“Exactly.”

“What did you just say?”

“What? You mean ‘exactly’?”

“No, before that.”

Haymitch doesn’t answer. Instead, he gets up from the couch. “I could use some fresh air before I go to bed.” His day rhythm is appalling. I scowl at him, but follow him outside. I’m not an idiot. We walk down the road leading to the town.

Finally,  once the Victors’ Village is out of sight, he speaks. “I saw the way you looked at her for years, Peeta. I’d have to be blind not to notice.”

I pale. “Do you think that _she_ knows?”

He shakes his head. “Probably not, because _she_ is blind. I talked to Greasy Sae, you know, in the Hob?” I shrug my shoulders. I don't know the names of people in the Hob, only faces. “Anyway, she’s known Katniss since she was a child. I asked her a few discreet questions, and it seems that Katniss is pretty dense when it comes to recognizing that men are in love with her. Sae said she was completely oblivious to how that Hawthorne boy felt about her, until he just went ahead and kissed her.” He must see the horrified expression on my face, and laughs. “I guess she understood then, at least, because they were together shortly after. Sorry if it’s too much information for your delicate ears.” He knows, of course, that after being a Capitol prostitute for more than a decade, there is nothing delicate about my ears whatsoever.

Shit. If Haymitch  knows… how many others do? Aside from my brothers, of course. Rye managed to get the truth of who I was in love with out of me when I was 14, and despite being sworn to secrecy, he told Bannock after roughly two minutes. They teased me mercilessly about being in love with a Seam girl for months.

I look down at my shaking hands. Haymitch notices, but  doesn’t hand me the bottle as I expect him to. As he always does. “So that’s why you recognized who she was? That night, after Gale died.”

“Yeah. When I saw the way you looked at her, I realized she was the girl you talked about with Flickerman. I decided to keep an eye on her, because you never know. So I sought her out in the Hob one day. I told her I wanted squirrel stew, and she helped me out. I became a regular customer.”

“You like squirrel stew?”

“No, fuck that shit! Whatever you have to say about the Capitol, at least they have better food than we do. I’d take filet mignon over scrawny squirrels any day. I’m a Victor. I don’t have to eat squirrels anymore. I gave the squirrels to some kids in the Seam.” He laughs, and pours himself another drink.

“Anyway, I realized Katniss Everdeen was quite something. I asked around a bit, found out her story. About how her father had died, her crazy mother, her sweet little sister, and how she was hunting to keep her family alive. She had earned herself a lot of respect in the Seam, much more than she knew herself, probably.”

“I can’t believe you’d do that,” I hiss, feeling even more ridiculous now. “Keeping tabs on her?”

Haymitch laughs again, mocking now. “Call it an extension of my mentoring duties, boy.” I hate it when he calls me _boy_ , and he knows it. “Anyway, you made a good choice. She had more courage than you yourself could ever dream of having. Sae claimed Katniss was pretty smart, too, although it was kind of hard to tell when all she would talk about was squirrels, and even that was only when I pressed her. She didn’t look half bad, either.” I huff. “Too bad she didn’t look back at you as you stared longingly at her from afar, huh? The fact that she was already taken might have something to do with it, of course.”

“Yeah. There was that.” I look down.

There is a long silence as we keep walking. Finally, Haymitch breaks it. “I also have a feeling that  there’s something more than that childhood crush of yours. Am I right?” I don’t answer, refusing to meet his eyes. I’ll never tell him about the bread. I won’t tell anyone.

Haymitch stops short, and I stop as well. He studies my face closely and continues. “You made the right decision back then. Not to get involved with her, I mean. It would have only  put her in more danger.” I look up at him, narrowing my eyes. “Anyway, I didn’t have her move into your house just so you could fuck a pretty widow senseless.” I blush deeply. “I did it because it was the only decent thing to do when I came across her about to do the dirty deed with Cray. It says a lot about her courage. I also knew she’d be someone who’d be strong enough to stand up against you, and I hoped that you'd listen to her. Because you sure as hell don’t listen to anyone else.”

I roll my eyes.

“Don’t hurt her, Peeta. You’ll have to deal with me if you do.”

“What are you trying to say? That I should stay out of her bed?” My voice is dripping with sarcasm.

“Yes. That’s _exactly_ what I’m telling you.”

I take the bottle from him. “I guess that won’t be a problem. Even if I were to want that... she never would.” I take a large  gulp of alcohol. Haymitch stares at me with a weird look on his face. “I still have no idea what you’re _really_ trying to tell me.” It’s a shock to find out that he has kept track of Katniss over the years. That he _knew_.

“I’m pretty sure she can keep you from becoming like me.” I look at him in the pale spring sun. He looks a bit better now, especially after I forced him to go to the Capitol and spend two weeks in a fancy hospital. I don’t think the doctors there got his liver quite back in shape, but it must be better, at least. Although there is no doubt in my mind that he’s drinking himself to death, and I’m sure he knows that, too.

“Fuck you,” I hiss, and then I start walking again, in the direction of the Town. To my relief, Haymitch doesn’t follow me. How dare he assume that Katniss means anything more to me than being my housekeeper... and someone I occasionally like to look at when she isn’t noticing? _Damn_ _it_.

There is nowhere for me to go. There's no one I want see, or anyone who would want to see me. So I walk aimlessly, all around the District. I walk through the Seam, looking at the small houses. They were white long ago, but now  they’re all covered in black coal dust. Then I walk back to the Town. I consider going to the bakery, but I decide against it. My mother might be there. Besides, I’m not that interested in seeing Bannock, either.

I return to the Victors’ Village late in the afternoon because I’m so hungry I can’t think over my stomach’s growl,  not to mention my feet are aching. Katniss is a decent cook, although I’m much better. But it’s her job, after all, so I let her do it. I haven’t really cooked in years, anyway. There was no point when there was only me.

Dinner is ready, just as I suspected. She’s kept it warm for me. I don’t look at her as I slump down  at the kitchen table, expecting to be fed. She gives me a large plate of what looks  to be some kind of stew, made with potatoes and lamb. I wolf it down. I’m starving. All I’ve had all day is some liquor.

Katniss holds Ivy on her hip. Arrow is doing his homework on the opposite side of the kitchen table. I look at the gurgling baby. I’ve  practically watched her fill out, day by day.

Abruptly, I get up.

There’s a bottle under the sink. I take it out, open it, and look longingly at it.  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see  Katniss frown.  I pour it out into the sink. There’s a bottle between two pillows on the couch, too. I pour that one out as well. One by one, I go through all of my hiding places in the house. There are many. I’ve always made sure there is a bottle close at hand, should I need it. I leave the liquor cabinet for last. It’s full of bottles. This is the expensive stuff. Not that I’ve actually paid money for most of it. They're mostly gifts from “friends," or clients, if you will. And Capitol idiots who can’t afford to pay the price I command, but who still want to suck up to me. As I pour of the contents of the last one, I hold Katniss’s  gaze with mine.

“Happy now?” I ask  as the last drops disappear down the drain.

She doesn’t answer, but there’s a hint of a smile on her lips.

 Haymitch was right. There is something between us. It’s been there since we were children. And Haymitch might also be right about her being the only person who stands between me and an early death as an alcoholic... even though I can’t fully explain to myself why that is. It started with a song and two braids, but that night in the rain, with the burned bread, sealed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love to hear what you think about my stories, please leave me a review! They really make my day. You can also talk to me on Tumblr, I'm mockingjayflyingfree there as well.


	6. Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter! My Easter officially sucks, thanks to a nasty stomach bug. Ugh. All of us have been ill, one after the other. TMI? I guess. ;) But if you want to make my day a bit better, because I'm feeling ridiculously sorry for myself right now, please leave me a review!
> 
> Please make sure to read the notes at the end of this chapter. Thank you.
> 
> And as usual, I would like to thank my lovely ladies. Without you, this story would suck (and if you still think it sucks, it's all my fault, not theirs). Lbug84, I know that I've buried you under mountains of texts lately, but you still keep me grounded when I go too far, and give me exactly the feedback I need. And Chelzie – even though you have so much going on in your personal life right now, you still find the time to help me out with this story. I really appreciate it. Thank you so much, both of you.
> 
> And last, but not least - thank you to everyone who's left a review or kudos, as well as bookmarked and subsribed to this story. I'm really blow away by your feedback.

Peeta doesn't bring any new bottles into the house. Even when he visits Haymitch, I think he stays away from the white liquor. Sometimes when our paths cross, I get close enough to smell - or rather not smell - his breath.

No liquor.

I appreciate his efforts. I'm sure that it's not easy for him. I've seen the effects of withdrawal from white liquor before in a few of my mother's patients. I know it's not pleasant, and I never expected Peeta to do this for my children. I never even expected him to do this for himself. I'm not sure who he's doing it for. He does seem sick on some days, with trembling hands and a desperate sheen in his eyes. But the fog passes. I suppose he wasn't as far down the road to alcoholism as I'd thought.

Haymitch comes over for dinner. Having seen the state of his kitchen, I am more than happy to provide him with a nutritious meal, too. I haven't forgotten what I owe him. I also haven't forgotten that he's seen my naked, starving body, but thankfully he doesn't bring that up. Instead, he seems intent on teasing Peeta mercilessly. Through their jests, it's not hard to see the bond that exists between the two victors.

Haymitch arrives unannounced, but not every day. When he's here, he's taken to drinking water at dinner instead of white liquor. He still drinks after he goes home, but at least he keeps it out of the house.

It's strange how quickly I've developed a sort of ownership of the house.

The days pass. We've all settled into a comfortable routine. Ivy sleeps most of the night. Arrow is no longer afraid of the dark in his large room. We visit Prim and her family, and I'm relieved to see that she and her children have put on some weight. The bread from the bakery must be helping, along with the food I stuff into my backpack whenever I can.

A sober Peeta is much easier to relate to. He teaches me how to play poker. After three nights, I master the game well enough to beat him. He huffs, and says it's only beginner's luck. When I tell Haymitch about it, not even trying to hide my smirk, he guffaws and says that he wants to play, too. Haymitch says that Peeta sucks at poker, but there's no way I could beat  _him_. So we play.

Haymitch's smile disappears gradually as I beat the crap out of them both.

"This is embarrassing, Haymitch," Peeta complains. "How many times have we played poker with the other Victors in the Capitol?"

I smirk. I'm a terrible liar, but it turns out I still have what they call a "poker face". I was also good at math in school. Besides, I can tell when Peeta's lying. He looks too closely at his cards, and sometimes he grinds his teeth. Haymitch is the more unpredictable liar, but he's rash, and often makes mistakes. He also underestimates me, which is his downfall.

It's a dark and rainy tonight, and the power is out. It doesn't happen a lot in the Victors' Village, unlike in the Seam. Peeta looks uneasy, but he won't say why. He only mutters something about District 5. We've lit candles, and we play poker as usual. There's no sign of Haymitch.

"Gale and I used to play chess at night," I suddenly say. I don't know why. I never talk to Peeta about Gale, unless he's listening in on the stories I tell Arrow.

Peeta loses the chips he was holding in his hand on the table. "Oh." He clears his throat. "Was he a good chess player?"

"Better than me, at least." I smile. "He was a strategist. He could think much further ahead, but I can only plan for the next two or three moves."

"Sounds like I'm at your level." I look at him. He's rearranging his few remaining chips on the table. He doesn't look up. "Would you like to play chess one night?"

My answer is immediate and spontaneous, "No." I can't explain to him why. Perhaps I can't even explain it to myself. I can't help but notice how he's clutching the edge of the table with his left hand so hard his knuckles are white. "But I like playing poker with you," I continue softly.

There's a hint of a smile on his lips when he finally looks at me. "You're only saying that because you're always winning, Katniss," he answers. I chuckle.

 

* * *

 

It's a sunny day in April. Peeta and I are sitting on the carpet in the living room, and Ivy is crawling between us – from me to him, and then back again. She is beaming, she is so proud of herself. And it's no wonder, because I'm ecstatic. And Peeta, much to my amazement, is  _laughing_. I don't think I've ever heard him laugh before, at least not like this. The worry lines and years seem to evaporate from him before my eyes, and just for a second, I get a glimpse of the boy he must have been before he was sent into the Hunger Games. He picks Ivy up as she returns to him, holds her upside down and tickles her. Ivy squeals with joy.

Suddenly, Peeta stops. He looks at something behind my back, and puts Ivy down on the carpet. I look over my shoulder and see my mother, leaning against the open doorway with a look on her face that I can't quite interpret.

"Um… How do you do, Mrs. Everdeen," Peeta says. He's blushing.

I'm blushing, too. Dammit. "Hi, Mom. I didn't hear you come in." I had no idea she was even stopping by.

"Hi, dear." There is something odd about her smile. "I knocked on the door, but there was no response. I heard you, though, so I took a chance and came inside anyway. I hope it's all right." She picks up Ivy, who immediately starts playing with her necklace. "Someone's learned to crawl. Well done, Ivy!" She smiles down at Ivy, who sticks her fingers into her grandmother's mouth.

"Yes, she learned it today." I smile proudly.

"So that's why you were so…  _overjoyed_."

"Yes." I'm nervous. Why am I nervous? I feel like I did back when my mother walked in on me and Gale on the couch when I was 17. Gale had his hand under my shirt, and after she chased him out of the house, I had to endure the most awkward talk I've had with my mother. Ever.

To hide my nervousness, I ask her if she would like some tea.

I take Ivy with me into the kitchen and my mother follows me. I know that look - there's something difficult or unpleasant she needs to say. I pour her a cup of tea, and she sits down by the kitchen table. I get a glass of water for myself and sit down by the table, too.

My mother talks about her neighbors, but I know that's not what she really came here to say. I furrow my brow. Peeta comes into the kitchen, and when he sees me nursing Ivy, he blushes and looks flustered. Even Ivy looks over to him, but doesn't stop eating. "I, uh… I'm going over to Haymitch's place," he says. He avoids looking directly at me.

I want to tell him there's no reason to be so uncomfortable; all I'm doing is nursing my baby. But I don't want to have that discussion right now, not with my mother present. "Okay. Will you be back for dinner?"

"Yes," he calls as he practically runs out of the house.

My mother visibly relaxes when she hears the door close behind him. "So why are you really here?" I ask her, raising an eyebrow.

"I needed to talk to you. Alone."

I offer Ivy the other breast. She's getting so old now that she nurses very quickly and efficiently. Well, at least she does when what she's primarily after is milk, not comfort. "What's wrong?"

My mother doesn't answer right away, as if contemplating how to proceed. "Has Arrow talked about school lately?"

"Not really," I answer. "Why?"

"I heard some things from Mrs. Beech. About Arrow and… school." Mrs. Beech is the mother of Erica, one of the girls in Arrow's class. She's also my mother's neighbor.

"Is there anything wrong?" If there was, surely Arrow's teacher would tell me? Or the principal?

"Mrs. Beech says that some of the other children have been teasing Arrow about…" Her voice trails off.

"About what?"

"About the fact that he lives in the Victors' Village and the nature of your… job."

It feels like a punch in the gut. "Are people really such small-minded gossips that the only reason they can think of for me living here is that I'm sleeping with Peeta Mellark?" I hiss, angrier than I had intended. Ivy stops suckling momentarily and looks questioningly up at me. I smile back at her reassuringly, knowing I have to keep it down.

"You know how people think, Katniss," my mother sighs. "Surely this can't come as a surprise?" Not really. But I hadn't expected anyone to actually discuss this in front of their children. That it would get back to my six-year-old son. "And then I come here and find you two laughing on the floor with Ivy."

"She did just learn to crawl."

"Seemed pretty  _cozy_  to me."

Ivy's finished eating, and it's time for her nap. "I'll put Ivy down," I tell her stiffly. "Then we can talk." She nods.

I quickly change Ivy's diaper and lay her in her new crib. She only just moved out of my bed. I whisper "sleep well" to her and close the door behind me. I listen for her, but I don't hear anything. She usually goes right to sleep these days, without any fuss.

And now I have to tackle my mother. I have a feeling this conversation could end up becoming as unpleasant as the facts of life lesson I got back when I was 17. My mother's a healer. There was no talk of the birds and the bees. She was straight to the point and it was utterly embarrassing.

When I come into the kitchen, she has finished her cup of tea. I don't offer her another.

"If you have something to say, then say it," I mutter.

She sighs. "Katniss, you are 30 years old. You don't need me to lecture you."

"But you're still going to, aren't you?" My voice is hostile. "It's a bit late to start interfering in my life, don't you think?"

She opens her mouth, then closes it, as if she doesn't know which question to answer first. My words must sting. Good, because I wanted them to. She knows very well that I've been taking care of myself since I was 11. Even though she's well again, having come out of her depression, and we're closer than we have probably ever been, it doesn't mean I've forgotten.

"It's okay to be lonely, Katniss. And it's okay to… possibly want more." I'm about to cut her off when she lifts her hand to silence me and shakes her head. "Please, let me finish. What I'm saying is that while it's natural to be lonely, and perhaps want someone, Gale has only been gone for half a year. It's hardly a good time to get involved with  _anyone_. And it's certainly not okay if you're doing it out of some sense of  _obligation_."

To my horror, I feel tears well up in my eyes. I clear my throat. "I  _don't_  want him," I say stiffly. "We are  _not_  involved that way. I'm his  _housekeeper_. We live in the same house. Peeta would never expect anything of me."

"I've seen the way he looks at you," she objects. I furrow my brow. What is she talking about? "And more importantly, I've seen the way you look at him."

What?

I shake my head. "You're imagining things. Really, Mom, you're going too far. If I want advice on my personal life, I'll ask you for it. But until then…"

She looks apologetic now. "I'm sorry, Katniss. I don't want you to feel uncomfortable. But I do want you to be careful. And you need to know that people are talking, and that Arrow seems to be paying the price."

I quickly dry away a tear. "Why hasn't he told me?"

"He's probably trying to protect you."

My brave little boy, wanting to protect his mother.

"I'll go talk to the principal," I tell her. "And I'll talk to Arrow."

"You do that." She gets up from the table. "I have to visit a few patients, so I should get going. Thanks for the tea." I nod and follow her to the door without another word.

My mother is nearly out the door when she stops and turns back to face me. "I'm sorry for interfering in your personal life, Katniss. That was never my intention. But…" She pauses. "Be careful... with your heart."

I look away. "I don't think I have a heart to be careful with anymore."

"What makes you think that?" she asks softly. I can't answer. I'm too ashamed. "I worry about you, Katniss." I refuse to meet her eyes.

She sighs. "I don't want to bother you about this if you really don't want to talk about it. But please know that if you want to talk, I'm here, all right?"

"Thank you," I mutter.

I stare at the closed door after she has left.

 

* * *

 

I talk to both the principal and Arrow's teacher, leaving them with no doubt that I expect them to pay extra attention to Arrow and make sure the bullies are stopped. They promise that they will, but I have a bad feeling about this. Children are all too good at hiding bullying from adults.

Just as my mother suspected, Arrow is trying to protect me. When I try to talk to him, ask him if anyone is bothering him, or saying things about me, he falls silent and looks away.

"Would it be easier if I didn't take you to school every day, Arrow?" I ask him. "Perhaps if the children don't see me, if they don't get reminded every day…"

He shakes his head vigorously. "No, Mama. I like it when we go to school together."

There's a knot in my belly. Does he want me to take him to avoid being bullied before and after school?

I decide to take matters into my own hands. Without telling Peeta the reason why, I ask him if it's okay for me to invite some of Arrow's friends over. He looks surprised, but agrees. I invite his two best friends over one Sunday, along with their mothers. Peeta chooses to stay away, which is probably for the best. Drew and Slate, along with their mothers, who I both know quite well, seem a bit intimidated at first. I know from personal experience how overwhelming this house can be at first when you're used to the small houses in the Seam. The boys quickly warm up, though, and the tension seems to ease a bit with Anna and Lily too, especially over a cup of coffee and generous amounts of apple cake. Arrow gets a return invitation to both the boys' homes, and he seems really happy when I tuck him in that night. He talks more than he has in weeks. I hope that if I can keep his network of close friends secure, it will somewhat protect him from the effects of the bullying. I need to normalize us living in the Victors' Village.

I think it helps, because as the weeks pass, Arrow does seem to tell me more about school over dinner, and he seems happier. It breaks my heart that I can't protect my child from everything. I want to keep him close all the time, but I can't. I have to send him out into the world, and there's nothing I can do about it.

 

* * *

 

I'm surprised to find Peeta in the kitchen. It's not even six in the morning, and he's already up. What's more, he's  _baking_. I know he's a baker's son, of course, but I've never seen him bake before.

"Good morning," he says with the shadow of a smile on his lips.

"Good morning," I answer. "You're baking… bread?"

I must sound either insulted or insecure, as I know my own baking skills are less than satisfactory. "I couldn't sleep, and suddenly I just felt like baking. I haven't baked in…" His voice trails off, and he looks into the distance for a few seconds. Then it's as if he snaps back. "Never mind."

I put Ivy down on the floor. Looking after her is quite a lot of work now that she's crawling. Arrow is still asleep. I really wish Ivy would start waking up a bit later in the morning. I look at Peeta, at the way he concentrates on the dough. I wonder if he's been awake all night, since the dough has already risen. "Would you teach me?" I ask before I have the chance to think about whether or not it's a good idea. I blush. "I mean, I'm… I've never been very good at baking. My breads look like… Well, you've seen them."

He smiles. "There's nothing wrong with your baking. The loaves are just a bit… flat." He's being too kind, and I know it. They look like train wrecks, but at least they taste okay. "But sure, I'll show you. Come here." I stand next to him by the counter. Within less than a minute, my hands are covered in sticky dough, but strangely, his are clean. I have no idea how he does it. I sigh, frustrated, as he's made two perfect loaves of bread, while all I've done is made a mess of everything. Peeta laughs, and gets me some more flour. "Here, do like this," he says and rubs my fingers between his hands, using enough flour to remove most of the dough that was stuck on mine.

It's the first time he's deliberately touched me like this. It's not a caress in any way. He's only helping me clean up, but it still feels… intimate. I hold my breath, although I don't know why. Suddenly, I realize that he must have asked me a question I didn't hear and subsequently didn't respond to, because he's looking at me with his eyebrows raised. "Um… sorry, what did you say?"

"I said you can wash your hands to get rid of the rest of the dough, and then use a bit more flour on the table and on your hands when you make the last bread. It should help."

I cock an eyebrow at him. "You're not letting me off, are you?" I do as he says, though, and the remains of the dough wash off relatively easily.

"No," he says, giving Ivy another wooden spoon to play with. Toys that aren't really toys are much more interesting to her than  _actual_  toys.

Peeta's wearing washed-out jeans and a white t-shirt that shows his stocky, muscular build. I've never really noticed before just how broad he is. I've never noticed… I feel my face getting warm, and realize I must be blushing. Dammit. I quickly turn to the oven, opening it to check on the loaves of bread that are already in there. That's the excuse, anyway, so I can explain my flushed face should he ask. Or perhaps I'm only really using it as an excuse for myself.

"You're good at this," I say as I turn around, facing him again. "Baking, I mean."

"Well, I am a baker, after all."

It's odd, I've never thought of him as a baker. He hasn't lived above the bakery since he won the Hunger Games. "I like that you still think of yourself as a baker," I say.

"Well, it sure beats "killer", doesn't it?" he asks, and it's as if his face closes up. He starts to clean the bowl the dough was in, avoiding my gaze.

"I didn't mean it like that," I whisper. I'm so bad with words. I should just shut up.

"I know," he mutters. "It's still the truth, though."

"What? That you're a baker?"

"No, that I'm a killer."

I shake my head slowly. "It's not something you chose. You didn't have any control over…"

"What about Madge?" he cuts me off.

I look away. "I can't… Please, let's not talk about this."

"I know you were her friend. I killed her, Katniss. How does that make you feel?"

When I was younger, I replayed that scene in my head so many times, late at night. I choose to evade his question. "You didn't kill her." My voice is low and steady.

"Yes, I did." He looks so defeated.

I point to the oven. Through the glass, we can see the loaves of bread rise. "See that?" He furrows his brow, not understanding. "It's  _bread_. It means life. It's food, it  _saves_  people. You're a baker, Peeta. Not a killer. You may have… killed people, though you did it because you had to survive. But it's not who you are."

He laughs bitterly. "Maybe it is? I was already fucked up, long before the Hunger Games finished the job. Living under the constant threat of a rolling pin will do that to you. I don't know, maybe it was for the best. Maybe the way my mother treated me toughened me up enough to win. No one decent ever wins the Games. Maybe I had less sanity and humanity to lose."

"Peeta…" He looks so defeated. Without thinking, I touch his upper arm. His skin is so warm under my fingers. I squeeze reassuringly, feeling how hard his muscles are. "It's not your fault. It's not your fault your mother treated you so badly, and it's not your fault you were reaped. You did what you had to do to survive. That's all."

He takes a deep breath. "I wish I could believe that. But just for the record… I want to tell you that I'm sorry. I'm sorry for throwing you that bread instead of giving it to you, like I should've done. And I'm sorry for not doing anything to help when Gale died. I almost let you and the children starve to death."

I wonder what he means by that. He didn't have any obligation to help me when I was widowed. Dozens of miners die in accidents every year. The Seam is full of widows. But I let it pass. This conversation is difficult enough as it is. "And I want to thank you… For saving my life. Twice." It's hard for me to thank anyone for anything. I don't want to have to thank people, because it means that I owe them. Peeta doesn't say anything. He only nods his head and looks away.

The smell of fresh bread is spreading through the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

I'm irritable and edgy all day, snapping at the children and avoiding Peeta as much as I can. I turn down his request to play poker and go to bed early.

And now I can't sleep.

Ivy is sleeping in her crib; I can hear her soft, quiet breathing. It usually lulls me right to sleep. And I know I really should get some rest, as I've been awake since five in the morning. Still, sleep won't come. I toss and turn while I curse myself without really knowing why. Perhaps I shouldn't have gone to bed this early. But I just couldn't face looking at Peeta tonight.

Looking at Peeta?

For some reason, all I've been able to think about today are his arms. The way they looked when he kneaded the dough, the muscles so defined under his pale skin… And his hands were so warm, the skin was burning against mine.

I'm shocked to realize that I've involuntarily pressed my thighs together, creating friction between them. I feel a pulse between my legs that's all too familiar. Except it's never been like this.

It's never been about him.

It hasn't even been a year. And here I am, lying in bed, thinking about a man who's not Gale. What the fuck is wrong with me?

My heart is pounding.

It's so quiet. Peeta must be downstairs. I know he doesn't go to sleep this early. In fact, I don't know when he retires. All I know is that it must be much later than I do. I don't think he sleeps much. Listening closely for his steps, my face burning with shame, I allow my right hand to travel where it's been longing to go, perhaps all day. I pull up my nightgown and let my fingers slip inside my panties.

I can't think about the last time I had a release. It was with Gale. It feels like a lifetime ago... the night before he died. I have to block that memory out. Thinking about it hurts too much.

I stifle a gasp when I feel just how wet I am. Just from… I bite my lip. Just from thinking. Spreading my legs a bit more, I let my fingers slip inside, collecting wetness which I then draw on my clit. I just have to get this over with. Quickly, without thinking about what I'm doing.

My body jerks at the touch, almost as if it's not my own hand.

I turn my head to stifle my moan in the pillow. I'll die of shame if Peeta comes upstairs and hears me. I squeeze my eyes shut. My left fist is closed tightly around the sheet. My right index finger is drawing tight circles around my clit, sending instantaneous jolts of electricity up my spine, causing my body to twist almost uncontrollably. This won't take long, and considering the circumstances, that's probably for the best. My breathing quickens, I feel a coil tightening in my lower stomach as I draw closer to the brink.

That's when I hear the familiar steps. Surprisingly heavy for someone who survived the Hunger Games. He's certainly not a hunter. I went to bed more than an hour ago, so he must think that I'm asleep. He has no idea that I'm still awake, with my hand between my legs while I think about… I'm mortified to realize that I can't stop. I  _should_  just stop, right now, but I can't.

He's right outside my door, which isn't even locked, when I come. I stifle my moans with the pillow while I know,  _know_  that he's right outside the door, and it's not locked, and he could come inside and reach out his hand towards me, under the sheets, and…

Do his steps slow down, just ever so slightly, as he passes my door? Or is it just my imagination? I ride out my orgasm, while I listen to his steps disappearing into the room at the end of the hallway. Can he hear my gasps and my whimpers? I desperately hope he can't. At the same time, it feels as if the very idea of him being so close, that he could possibly hear, prolongs and intensifies my orgasm.

My body collapses against the mattress, boneless and heavy. I'm ashamed that I touched myself, but most of all, I'm mortified that I thought of  _him_  while I did.

I'm so tired. My head is spinning. My still heart races in my chest.

I curl up in bed and fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

I find it hard to meet his eyes at breakfast, pretending as if nothing happened. That I didn't imagine that his hands were touching me instead of my own.

Or instead of Gale's.

But of course, Peeta has no idea. He must not have heard me last night, because he acts just like he always does. It's only me who feels as if something has changed.

I try to avoid him as much as I can without him noticing, which is surprisingly hard. Without it being a conscious decision, we've spent a lot of time together lately. We've not necessarily talked or done anything in particular, we have just been together in the same room.

But today, I can't stand it. I feel as if he must see right through me. That he must see what I did last night. And the worst part is that my body remembers, and I'm shocked to discover that my body wants  _more_. I try to rationalize it. Of course my body wants more. Gale has been gone for months, and even in the last few months before he died, I was either heavily pregnant or I had a newborn baby. But not anymore. I'm a healthy woman. With  _needs_ , apparently. My mother said it was okay to want someone, although I'm not sure she'd be supportive if I'd told her about  _this_.

But rationalizing doesn't help at all. Instead, it brings tears to my eyes. Mortified, I mumble an excuse and run out of the room, leaving Peeta with Ivy. When I return 15 minutes later, he looks sad, but doesn't say anything. He must notice my red-rimmed eyes and puffy face, but he's too polite – or too scared – to say anything about it.

I go to bed early again. I can't bear the thought of playing poker with him as if nothing's happened.

It doesn't help, though. Quite the opposite. I don't get away from him, because his blue eyes seem to sparkle at me through the darkness. I know it's just my imagination, but it feels real. My hand seems to move of its own volition, to that place where my thighs meet. Tonight, I'm not surprised at all to find that I am again soaking wet. And this time, the name on my lips, the one I stifle in the pillow as I come, is definitely his.

In the morning, I try to avoid him again. I do a better job of it, too – until Ivy's nap time. I pass around a corner, and suddenly, he's there. He looks… hurt. I swallow. I never wanted to hurt him. I never wanted to…

"Have I done anything to offend you, Katniss?" he asks, his voice low so as not to wake Ivy. I shake my head, wordlessly. "I think I must have, because you've been acting so strangely these last few days. Whatever it is, I'm sorry."

I keep my eyes fixed on the floor, and I'm mortified to find that tears are rolling down my cheeks, and I can't stop them. When he sees my tears, he instantly moves closer, touching my cheek with his large, warm hands, brushing the tears away. "Oh, Katniss, please don't cry."

He's standing too close to me. But for the life of me, I can't move away from him. He puts two fingers under my chin, lifting it, forcing me to meet his eyes. Even through the veil of tears, I see his blue merchant eyes clearly.

He gasps. I hold my breath.

I can't say what passes between us in that moment. It seems to last forever. Then I break the eye contact with him, and turn away. He doesn't follow me.

At night, after the children are in bed, he is very quiet.

"Katniss, there is something I have to tell you," he finally says. "I should've told you earlier, but I… I don't know why I couldn't."

I hope my fear doesn't show. He's going to tell me. He's going to tell me that he's heard, or that he's understood, or…

"I'm going to the Capitol."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes - Peeta is going to the Capitol. And you know what happens to desirable victors there.
> 
> I need you to realize that although this story is ENDGAME EVERLARK, it's going to be a bumpy ride. In the next couple of chapters, there will be non-Everlark pairings. I have decided to write two different versions of chapters 7 and 9, because I don't want FFN to take down my story. So one version will be posted on FFN, and the full Explicit rated version will be posted here on AO3. The AO3 version will give you a deeper and better insight into what "working" in the Capitol is like for Peeta, including his relationship with the other victors. However, the story should still make sense if you choose to read the version on FFN. I'm basically editing out the non-Everlark smut, that's the main difference between the two versions.
> 
> So this is what is going to happen in the upcoming chapters that may not be to everyone's liking:
> 
> In chapter 7, there will be a Peeta/Cashmere scene. It's a rare pairing, I even had to create a new relationship on AO3 because apparently, no one had done it before. I happen to be a Cashmere fan. She may be a career, but I won't turn her into a heartless bitch. Even if you read the FFN version, Cashmere is still going to be there. You will also meet her in chapter 9, and probably in some of the later chapters. We don't know much about Cashmere from Catching Fire, but what little we do know has made me very curious. She's deadly, she's intelligent, she's beautiful and she knows how to manipulate an audience. A fantastic character in her own right!
> 
> Chapter 8 is written in Katniss's POV, and deals with what happens to her while Peeta is in the Capitol. You'll also get the story of her relationship with Gale. I just thought I'd give you a fair warning if you really hate Galeniss.
> 
> In chapter 9, there will be a scene with Peeta and a customer. It may be difficult to read – it was certainly difficult for me to write it, but it was necessary. This scene will not be part of the FFN version of the chapter, but that doesn't mean it doesn't happen in the FFN version. In general, chapters 7 and 9 deal with the forced prostitution. It's not pretty, but it's what Peeta's life has become, and I have to address it.


	7. The careers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve written two versions of this chapter. One explicit rated version for AO3, and one that is somewhat censored for FFN. Which version you choose to read is entirely up to you. 
> 
> You can find the FFN version here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10147078/1/The-miner-s-wife  
> (Please note that I'm posting this chapter on AO3 first, there will be a small delay before I post it on FFN.)
> 
> This chapter deals with forced prostitution. There will also be some Peeta/Cashmere smut. If you can’t stomach the former, then I suggest you skip this chapter, regardless of version – and you will have a hard time getting through this story in general, because as suggested by the story summary, the consequences of forced prostitution are central in TMW. If you can’t stomach reading Peeta/Cashmere smut, I suggest you read the FFN version.
> 
> I’d like to thank Lbug84 for going over several versions of this chapter and helping me get it right. Balancing this chapter was difficult, and it would've sucked without you. And if it still does, it’s all my fault, not Lbug84’s!
> 
> Also a big thank you to Chelziebelle for prereading. Sorry for always burying you under mountains of text!

It’s time to for yet another trip to the Capitol. I usually refer to these trips as “working holidays” when I talk about them. _If_ I talk about them. Haymitch is the only one who knows why I go to the Capitol, except to mentor during the Hunger Games. I suppose everyone else in 12 thinks I'm there for the parties.

I’m sitting in Haymitch’s kitchen, which looks filthy to me now that my own kitchen is spotless. I’ve brought him some bread, but I hadn’t expected him to sob because of it. Embarrassed at this unusual emotional outburst, I locate some tissue paper that looks like a rat might have peed on it, but I give it to him anyway. He blows his nose loudly.

“You’re worrying me, Haymitch. Since when do you cry?”

“When was the last time you baked?”

I sit back, stunned. I haven’t even thought about it myself. I shrug. “I don’t know.” I decide it’s best to change the subject. “I’m leaving in two days.”

“Who else is going to be there?”

“Finnick. I just talked to him yesterday. He’s been in the Capitol for three weeks already.”

“Cashmere?”

I nod. “And Gloss.”

Haymitch wrinkles his nose. I know what he’s thinking. Cashmere and Gloss are the only victor siblings in the history of the Hunger Games, and they are both stunning. As a result, they are usually offered as a package. In addition to the usual prostitution business, they have regular shows, where they don’t entertain customers physically. All the Capitol pigs do is watch brother and sister fuck. It’s basically a live porn movie with interactive elements, as it’s possible to request certain positions or actions along the way.

I will never, ever understand the twisted Capitol minds. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, watching Haymitch empty yet another glass. I wonder how I’m going to get through  this trip without drinking. Or without drugs. Maybe I can drink and do drugs in the Capitol, and be sober when I’m here? “Cashmere says she kind of prefers it to fucking strangers. She says at least Gloss respects her.”

“Is she any good?”

“You're a disgusting old pig, Haymitch. ”

“Is she any good?” he repeats.

I roll my eyes. Haymitch knows very well that I’ve had more than a few appointments that involved Cashmere. He also knows that Cashmere has spent time in my bed without anyone from the Capitol being involved. She can’t help me ward off my nightmares, nor am I of any help with hers, but we provide each other with relief and something that passes for comfort when we are awake. We have, on and off, for years. We’re not a couple, and we never will be. We are too damaged, both by the Hunger Games and what came after. But she has become a good friend, and I trust her as much as a victor could trust someone. “Of course she is, Haymitch. She’s been on the Capitol's payroll for, what, 20 years? She knows every trick in the book, and then some.”

“I bet she does. She’s seriously hot.”

“Jealous, Haymitch?” I ask with a smile. I rarely hear him talk about women.

He guffaws, but doesn’t answer my question. Instead, he changes the subject. “Who else? Any of the new kids?”

I sigh. These new, young victors. Every year, I see how they change – from relative innocence, considering what they have done to win the Hunger Games, via desperation, to resignation. It doesn’t get any easier. Every year, it’s just as hard to watch them transform.

“Diamond.” The most recent victor, a beautiful girl from 1. Too beautiful.

Haymitch snorts. “Their names just keep getting more ridiculous. Someone in 1 should get shot for coming up with names like that.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure someone will get shot. Probably her parents, if she doesn’t do as she’s told.” I’m angry. I know I shouldn’t say these things, especially not here. “She’s just turned 19, and she’s been a Capitol worker for less than half a year. This is only her second season. Cashmere tries to help her... and I will, too.” I hope I don’t have to sleep with Diamond myself. She’s only a kid. My stomach twists at the thought. “Spar‘s going to be there, too.” I don’t really like the boy from 2 who won three years ago. I think he’s an arrogant asshole, and besides, he’s developed a pretty big drug problem already. But we’re all in this together, I guess. “And Enobaria.” Her sharpened teeth and attitude are a big hit in the Capitol. The  citizens love a good show, and Enobaria provides them with just that.

“Wow, what a gang. You kids have fun.”

“Oh, I’m sure we will.” I had intended for my voice to be dripping with sarcasm, but it just comes out as tired and old.  I take a deep breath. “I haven’t told _her_ I’m going yet.”

Haymitch takes another chug of white liquor. “When are you planning to tell _her_ , boy? Are you going to leave _her_ a note?” His voice is sarcastic.

I huff. “No, of course not. I’ve just been… waiting for the right time. But I’m going to tell her tonight.” I pause. Katniss has been acting so weird lately. She clearly tries to avoid being in the same room as me, and even when she is forced to interact with me, she barely talks to me. I have no idea what’s going on with her. Is it something I’ve done? I’m afraid telling her I’m leaving for the Capitol will make things even worse. “Will you look after Katniss and the children while I’m gone?”

“I don’t think Katniss needs an old drunk to look after her.”

“No, I guess she doesn’t.”

Finally, I’m able to say the thing I came here to tell him. “Please don’t tell her… about why I’m going to the Capitol.” For some reason, I can’t meet his eyes.

“Of course I won’t tell her, Peeta. Why would I?” His voice is surprisingly warm.

I shrug. Thankfully, he doesn’t ask me why I would care if she knew.

  

* * *

 

I finally tell her. The truth is out in the open now. Well, parts of it anyway. Katniss knows that I’m leaving, but not the real reason why. I pack some things; clothes for the train journey, mostly. I have a suite in the Capitol, all my Capitol clothes are there. I can’t wear Capitol clothes here in 12 any more than I can wear 12 clothes in the Capitol. On the train, I’m in limbo.

I’m already starting to feel like a caged animal.

After packing, I have an overwhelming need for a drink. I still manage not to go over to Haymitch’s and beg him for a bottle.

Arrow is very excited that I’m going to be on a train. I promise to buy him a present from the Capitol.

It’s strange to have someone to buy presents for.

I guess that means I’ll have to buy something for Ivy, too, even though she’s too little to be hurt if her brother gets a present and she doesn’t. Should I get something for Katniss, too? Is that going too far? Will she be offended if I do? Or perhaps she’ll be offended if I don’t, and not tell me?

It’s confusing. What does it all mean? First she became my friend, I think. Then all of a sudden, she acted as if I didn’t exist for days. She avoided me, and when she was forced to be in the same room with me, she barely talked to me at all. She cried, but she wouldn’t tell me why. I can still remember the way she looked at me afterwards… I can’t get that look in her eyes out of my head. _Fire_. It was as if she was on fire. Her eyes held me, they wouldn’t let me go.

There’s no fire in her eyes tonight, though. Again, she avoids looking at me, and doesn’t talk to me. It’s time to leave. I’m scheduled on the night train, which leaves at 10. After the children are in bed, we sit in silence in the living room until  a little past 9 and it’s time for me to go.

“I should…” I look up at the clock on the wall.

“Yes.”

I get up from the couch, and she gets up from her chair, too. She plays with the end of her braid.

“I’ll be back in three weeks,” I tell her. It’s not really necessary. She already knows.

She nods. “Okay.” Then she takes a deep breath. “Will you be okay?” Finally, she looks at me. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. Her mask is on. The wall is up.

I shrug. “Sure.” I probably won’t be. I have a feeling it’s going to be worse than ever this time. And it’s because of her – and the children. But I can’t say that to her, for obvious reasons.

“What exactly is it that you do in the Capitol?” She tries to keep her voice casual, but she doesn’t quite make it.

So she suspects something. She must. This is dangerous territory. “I’m a representative for President Snow,” I say, weighing my words carefully. “You know, attend parties, official functions, do interviews… things like that. To please our sponsors. Lots of Capitolites want to socialize with victors. We’re their celebrities.”

She nods as if she understands, but I know she doesn’t have the framework to. She’s never been outside of 12. She doesn’t know how things work in the Capitol. “Do you like it?”

I hesitate slightly. “It’s my job. I don’t have to like it.”

“Then why do you do it?” When I don’t answer, she continues. “You’ve been really tense lately. And you’ve been acting strangely every time your trip comes up.”

“It’s part of being a victor, Katniss,” I tell her. “Whether I like it or not, that’s the way it is.” It’s the truth. Just not all of it. I pick up my bag from the floor. “I need to get going.”

She nods and follows me to the door. I know that in three weeks, when I come home, the house won’t be empty. When I open the door and step inside, the house won’t smell like no one lives here. It will be a welcome change from the many lonely years. But I know what awaits me in the Capitol.

“Take care, Peeta,” she says. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

I’m about to turn around to open the door and leave when I feel arms around my middle. She's... _hugging_ me. I think this is a hug, anyway. It's short, not particularly soft or sweet, and verging on awkward. My elbows get in the way, and my heart races. I smell her hair, feel the soft swell of her breasts against my chest for a split second, and then she releases me.

I open the door, walk down the steps, and go to the train station. Not once do I dare to look back.

 

* * *

 

Surviving two weeks in the Capitol without drugs is impossible. I realize it even before the train pulls into the train station. I promise myself that I will try to stay away from alcohol, but I'll allow myself to do drugs as needed, which I have a feeling will be every day. The two days on the train  back to 12 will probably be enough to get the drugs out of my system, so Katniss will never know.

The only good thing about going to the Capitol is socializing with the other victors. I go straight from the train station to the hotel’s rooftop bar, where they're already waiting for me. Hotel. “Hotel” is a nice word for “Snow’s brothel”, which is what it actually is. We have our own personal suites, and there are various bedrooms and studios designed specifically for the purpose of selling our bodies.

In the bar, I immediately spot an odd assortment of people sitting by our regular table. People who I would never even have considered getting to know had I met them by chance. But the Hunger Games brought us together, and my friendships  with the other victors are probably the only good thing to come out of all this. I wish Johanna were here, too, but she’s only in the Capitol for the Hunger Games. She mentors, but Snow killed off all her relatives and loved ones for her disobedience, so he doesn’t have any leverage over her anymore. As a result, she's bold, daring to say some of the things that the rest of us don’t. Though, even she’s not stupid enough to go too far. She knows she would be easy to dispose of. In fact, I think the only reason why she consents to mentoring at all is that she wants to stay visible in the public eye. It makes it harder for Snow to kill her off. Chaff, Seeder, Beetee… Many of the victors have become good friends over the years. I wish I could call the people here tonight the crème de la crème of the victors, but it’s not true. In fact, we are some of the most thoroughly fucked up of them all. We just happen to look good and be reasonably young.

I stop by the bar to get a glass of water before I make my way over to the table, hoping the others won’t notice what’s in my glass. I notice the stares I’m getting from the Capitolites who are here, but I ignore them. I fucking hate being a celebrity.  I know these idiots are here mainly because they hope to get a closer look at their precious victors, perhaps even talk to us so they can brag about it on their silly social media networks afterwards.

I'm greeted with smiles, hugs, a grin full of fangs and a raised eyebrow. Cashmere, Enobaria, Gloss, Finnick, Diamond and Spar. Haymitch was right – it really is quite a gang. It doesn’t take long for Gloss to discover the contents of my glass. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised – it’s hardly what I’d normally drink.

“So… water, Mellark?”

I clear my throat. “Um… yeah.”

“Now that’s a story I’d like to hear,” Cashmere giggles. She’s drunk. And gorgeous.

“There’s no story, I just…  don’t want to end up like Haymitch. That’s all.” That would’ve been credible, if only I hadn’t told them all repeatedly over the years that I didn’t fucking care if I ended up like Haymitch.

Cashmere raises an eyebrow. “Who is she?”

“What? There is no she!”

“Who is _he_ , then?”

“There’s no he, either!”

Cashmere snorts. “Yeah, right.”  She takes my hand. “Come fuck me, Mellark. Right now.”

“No.”

“See? There is someone.”

I grit my teeth. “There’s no one, alright? I’d never drag anyone with me into… _this_."

Cashmere raises her eyebrows at me. "I got a housekeeper, that’s all. She has small children, and she doesn’t want me to drink in front of them.”

“So… your housekeeper moved into your house? With her children? And you let her dictate your drinking behavior in _your own_ house?”

When Cashmere says it like that, I sound like a weakling. “Uh… I guess.”

“And what does her husband say about her moving into your house?”

“He’s… he passed away.”

“Oh, a widow? They are the best ones,” Gloss says, a devilish glint in his eye. “No virtue to worry about, well trained in bed, and more often than not, horny as hell. Well done, Mellark. I’m impressed.”

“Gloss!” I get up, pissed off and ready to punch him in the face, when I realize that they are all practically rolling on the floor in laughter at my expense. Even young Diamond is laughing nervously.

I roll my eyes, but find it hard to hide my smile.

Thankfully, after a while they stop teasing me and start talking about something else. Victor gossip (apparently Johanna took off all her clothes in an elevator), speculation about this year’s arena, Finnick’s new boat. “You should come see it,” he says, but we all know we won’t. I’ve never visited any of the others, and I don’t think they have visited each other, either. I wonder what it would be like to meet the other victors somewhere else. In their home districts. What would Cashmere look like early in the morning, in her own kitchen, making her own morning coffee? What would it be like to see Finnick – together with Annie? Meet Spar’s parents?

I’ve lost track of what the others talk about, something about the technical details of the engine of Finnick’s boat. I look at Diamond and  realize she’s not really following the conversation, either. “Not interested in boats?” I ask her, keeping my voice low so Finnick doesn’t hear it. 

She shakes her head. She’s blond and beautiful, like Cashmere. She’s also deadly. Like all of us. She tilts her head, and I see something shimmering. I brush her hair away from her shoulder to reveal her earrings. They are white gold, studded with diamonds. They are shaped like ninja stars.

“Subtle,” I say.

She chuckles. “I know. They were a gift from President Snow.” Ninja stars are what made Diamond famous, and they are the reason why she is alive. Her mother trained her to throw ninja stars when she was four years old, and it’s a skill that was perfected during her years at the Victor Academy in 1. Diamond was practically born a Career – but underneath all that, she’s also quite innocent.

“Well, you certainly couldn’t turn down such a generous gift,” I say.

Her smile fades slightly before it’s back on again. Good. She knows. Cashmere is a good teacher. “No, I couldn’t. Goes well with my outfit, too.” She gestures down to her black leather dress, which hugs her curves – she has obviously never starved. It’s edgy, but not too dramatic, and suits her style perfectly. She’s right – the ninja stars look perfect. But of course, 1 has an amazing stylist. They got Cinna – he did so well with me and the long  deceased District 12 tributes for the first few years after I became a victor that he was promoted to a career district.

On the other side of the table, Spar is getting drunk. Messy drunk, and singing with Enobaria. He knocks a glass over with his elbow, and it shatters on the floor. He swears loudly, but quickly gets a new one from a waiter and all is forgotten. I can see Diamond studying Spar from under her eyelashes, heavy with black mascara.

“There are examples you should follow,” I murmur to her, leaning a bit closer so no one but her can hear what I’m saying. “And then there are the ones you shouldn’t.”

“You’re one to talk, Peeta,” she answers, her voice as low as mine. “I remember how wasted you were last fall. It takes more than one night drinking water for you to have any right to lecture me on drinking behavior.”

I have half a mind to scold her for lecturing me, a senior victor – but I have to admit to myself that she’s right. I also have to admire her spunk. “It's different for men. We don't appear weaker when we’re inebriated." Her face softens and she nods her head, processing my cautionary words. "I guess there’s a reason why you’re a victor though, right?” I can’t help but chuckle.

“There’s a reason you are one, too.”

“True.” I pause. “Your first season is behind you now. It’s the worst one in some ways – but not in other ways.”

“What do you mean?” She’s serious now. The ninja star hanging from her right ear rests against the flawless skin of her neck. I wonder if they are as sharp as they look.

“The first season is awful because you’re new, and it’s a lot to get used to.” That’s the understatement of the year. “But they know you’re new, and they cut you some slack because of it. Not much, but some. But now, in your second season, it’s expected to be routine.”

She can’t hide the way the words hit her. Her pupils dilate and she takes a sharp intake of breath. “ _Routine_?” Her voice is actually shaky. I wonder if she’s close to crying. She looks so tough, and she _must_ be tough. But I wonder how deep it really goes.

“Sorry,” I say. “I know it’s a fucked-up thing to say, but it’s true.”

She looks down at her drink, which she has barely touched until now. Suddenly, she throws her head back and downs it. She puts her glass back down on the table after, so hard I think for a split second that the glass will break. “I think I need another drink.”

 

* * *

 

Finnick and I are the last to retreat to our rooms. We are also the only ones who are sober. Finnick very rarely drinks,   saying he prefers to remember everything the next morning. I know he doesn’t mean that he prefers to remember everything that he does or everything that people do to him – he wants to remember everything he hears.

Finnick collects secrets.

“Have you seen your schedule for the next week yet?” he asks me as we are about to part.

I shake my head. “I prefer not to.” I don’t want to think about tomorrow. All I know about is the doctor’s appointment I have in the morning. Finnick gets off of the elevator before me and with a  nod of his head, he disappears.

As I walk down the corridor, not a person in sight, I have a sudden urge to call home. It’s two in the morning. With the time difference, it’s four a.m. in 12. Katniss is definitely asleep, and I don’t want to wake her. Ivy wakes early, and sometimes she’s awake at night, too. Katniss needs her sleep. Besides, I’d probably scare her to death if I called her in the middle of the night; she’d think something was wrong.

I really wish I could hear her voice right now.

I can call Haymitch, though. He’ll be awake. I won’t even have to come up with an excuse why I called him in the middle of the night. He’ll understand.

But when I enter my suite, I find a sleeping Cashmere in my bed. I’m not particularly surprised. She got pretty drunk, and it looks like she has more or less passed out. She didn’t even take off her shoes. So I’m definitely not calling Haymitch tonight. I don’t want to wake her. Besides, if Haymitch found out I called him with Cashmere in my bed, I’d never hear the end of it.

I take her shoes off carefully to avoid waking her up, and find some pills in the bathroom, as well as a glass of water. I leave the pills and the glass on the nightstand table on her side of the bed. The Capitol’s hangover pills are surprisingly effective, and I think she’ll need them in the morning.

At least she’s warmed up the bed for me. I slip under the covers and find myself gravitating towards her.

It’s been a long day, and I quickly fall asleep.

  

* * *

 

The morning sun wakes me up. I wish it hadn’t. I’m dreading the day ahead, and I don’t see the point in waking up before I have to.

Cashmere is already awake, though. A quick look at the nightstand table tells me she’s taken the pills I laid out for her last night, which probably explains why her skin tone is almost normal, and why her eyes aren’t bloodshot. As she leans closer, I discover she smells minty, like toothpaste. So she’s even been to the bathroom and claimed my toothbrush while I was asleep. She’s removed all the thick layers of Capitol make-up, too. She looks like a different person without it. She looks almost vulnerable. Almost.

“Good morning,” she purrs.

She has also, it seems, taken off the dress she was wearing last night. And her underwear.

“Good morning,” I answer. “Did you sleep well?”

She rolls her eyes. “I guess. I passed out. Thanks for the medicine. You’re considerate as ever, Mellark.”

“Yeah, I’m a real gentleman,” I chuckle darkly.

She kisses my shoulder. I move my head to the side to give her better access to my neck. I shouldn’t do this with her this time. It’s confusing. I doubt Katniss would approve if she knew. But it’s probably better if I don’t think too much about it. Sex serves as a stress-reducing activity more than anything for both Cashmere and me, I think. And a comfort. Right now, I need both. I'd hate for whoever bought me this time to be my first release here.

A skilled hand travels over my belly, down to my boxer shorts. “So you didn’t tell us much about this housekeeper of yours last night,” she says. She smiles a wicked grin when she finds that I’m growing hard already. “It must’ve been a while,” she whispers into my ear.

“It’s not like that between us,” I tell her, closing my eyes as she pulls the boxer shorts down my hips so she has full access to my body.

She raises an eyebrow. “If you say so.” She licks her palm quickly, and then her hand is wrapped around my cock. I know her hands can be deadly, but for me they have been nothing but a source of pleasure. She starts pumping me. Damn, she’s good at this. Of course. “I’ve missed you,” she says. “And it seems like you have missed me?” I groan. She pumps me slowly. The pressure is perfect. “Did you?” Her fingers press around my shaft just a little bit more firmly, making me buck against her.

“Damn you,” I hiss. “Yes.” What’s between us has never been love, that’s an unspoken agreement. No feelings beyond friendship. Mostly.

“Have you… with her?”

I shake my head. “I told you. It’s not like that.”

“But you want to?”

She watches me intently, and I look into her eyes. I could easily lie. She might even believe me. I’m used to lying. Sometimes because I have to, other times because it’s simply easier. But now I know the room is bugged. It probably wouldn’t matter anyway, I’m sure Snow already knows all about Katniss ...and whatever we are. Still, I nod, instead of saying the words out loud.

Cashmere doesn’t answer. There is a small smile on her lips. She pumps me faster. Her other hand cups my balls, carefully but firmly, just the way she knows I like it. I won’t last long. Her breath is hot in my ear when she whispers hoarsely to me. “Let go, Peeta. I want to watch you come.” And with that, I spill my seed over her fingers and my belly.

My head falls back onto the pillow as I try to catch my breath. Cashmere doesn’t make an effort to clean up. Instead, she’s  absentmindedly playing with the small pool of semen that’s quickly cooling down on my stomach. “Feel better?”

“Yeah,” I groan. I meet her piercing blue eyes. Her blonde curls cascade over her shoulders. Here, in the morning light - almost for the first time - I see that she’s getting older. She must be around 40 now. I wonder how long the Capitol doctors will operate on her and inject things into her face and her body until Snow finally decides to retire her and leave her in peace in 1. She, Gloss and Finnick have survived in this business the longest. And to be fair, Gloss is probably only still doing it because Cashmere is his sister.

“Want me to…” I nod towards her. I’m always willing to return the favor for her.

She shakes her head. “No. I’m tired.” She just woke up. But I know what she means. She lies down, resting her head on my shoulder, her fingers still covered with my cum. She’s quiet for a long time. Finally, she speaks. “I checked everyone’s schedules.”

Fuck. This can’t be good.

“Diamond’s scheduled with Finnick _and_ Gloss tonight.”

I knew it. I knew it would happen. “Oh no,” I sigh.

“It will be her first threesome. She only had to entertain individual customers in private last season.”

“Is it a private show?”

Cashmere nods. That’s something, at least. There will only be one person watching them, not a room full of spectators. I wonder who that one person is. He must be stinking rich if he can afford Finnick, Gloss _and_ Diamond.

There are a lot of things I could say about how fucked-up the situation is, but there’s no point. It’s not safe, and besides, Cashmere already knows. Instead, I try to comfort her. “You couldn’t find anyone better to ease her into it. You know that, right?” She nods, but still doesn’t look convinced. “Gloss is from 1. He knows her well. And Finnick is an expert at this, you know he always does everything to get his women off. He’s also a genuinely good guy. Okay? He’ll take care of her.”

She’s almost crying now. I hardly ever see her cry. “A part of me wishes it was you, Peeta. You’d be good to her.” I know she says it as a compliment, and I guess I shouldn’t feel grateful I’m not on Diamond's schedule, but I am. I haven’t been as grateful about anything in a long time. 

“You really care about her, don’t you?” They are dangerous words. Caring for someone equals a weakness, something the Capitol can use against you. But her feelings are so badly hidden anyway that I’m sure Snow already knows.

"I got her out of the arena alive. And I want her to _stay_ alive.”

Diamond is to Cashmere what I am to Haymitch. The child she never had. Someone Cashmere needs to protect. I wonder who else is on that list. Cashmere rarely talks about her life in 1, but I know her parents are still alive, and I think she and Gloss have a younger sister who was never in the Hunger Games. I also know she likes running and yoga, and Gloss once mentioned  that she likes to cook, but that’s it. I can’t say that I blame her – keeping my life in 12 separate from my life in the Capitol has been my way of surviving this, too.

Still lost in thought, I browse through the breakfast menu. “Do you want something to eat?” I ask her.

She shakes her head. “No. I should get back to my room and get dressed.” She slips out of bed, and goes into the bathroom. I hear her wash her hands. When she comes back out, she’s wearing the dress she wore last night. It’s odd to see her in a fancy dress, combined with her make-up free face and her hair a chaotic mess from her sleep.

“Are you spending the day with Gloss and Diamond?”

She nods, trying to get her hair under control. “Yeah. See you tonight?” There is an unsaid word there: _after_.

“Yeah.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

My breakfast arrives quickly, along with the day’s newspaper. I throw the paper directly into the trash. I’m not interested in reading it. After having breakfast in bed and then a long shower, I still have an hour left before I have to leave.

I look out the window at the endless traffic below. I’m on the 11th floor. The cars look like toys. I wonder where I can get toys in the Capitol? I’ve never had reason to buy toys here before.

Still looking out the window, I reach out for the phone on the bed stand table. I’ve never actually dialed the number before, but I know it by heart.

Only when Katniss answers the phone do I realize that I haven’t thought of an excuse to call her. What should I say to her? How can I even explain to myself that after Cashmere spent the night in my bed and then gave me a handjob, talking to Katniss is the first thing on my mind?

Talking to Katniss on the phone is difficult. She doesn’t say much,  only  answering direct questions. She seems so distant. When I’m at home, she’s not usually that talkative, but she doesn’t seem like _this_. I can’t put my finger on it, but I know that something is wrong.

There are some muffled sounds that might be her crying, but trying to hide it. Is it? Am I imagining things?

I can’t ask her. Instead I start talking about the garden, if she can buy some seeds and plant them out before I come home. It’s the only excuse for me calling that I can come up with. I know the excuse sucks, and she’d have to be an idiot not to see through it. And Katniss Hawthorne is definitely not an idiot.

After talking about roses and plum trees, there is no more garden-related nonsense I can talk about. She’s barely said a word. I hesitate, and then I realize I can’t put it off any longer. “How are you doing, Katniss?” I ask.

Silence. I worry that she’s going to hang up on me. Then she finally answers, “Why do you ask?”

“You just seem so… far away.”

“I _am_ far away.”

I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all. “You know what I mean.”

“I’m tired, Peeta. That’s all." I can barely hear her voice, she’s practically whispering. She still doesn’t answer my first question, but those two short sentences are answer enough. I have to force myself to keep calm. She doesn’t say anything else, but I hear her breathing over the phone. Slightly irregular, too shallow. She’s definitely crying now, but she’s trying to hide it.

Then she hangs up.

Fuck.

I try  calling back, but the phone must be off the hook.

What’s going on? What’s happening in 12?

  

* * *

 

 My first appointment of the day isn’t a customer, it’s the doctor. The Capitol needs to protect its assets. In this case, it’s the bodies of the Victors, and in particular our sexual organs.

I’ve done this so many times. I’m way past feeling embarrassed about the physical examination and the test taking. I also get an injection in the arm, making sure that another year will go by without me impregnating a customer.

“It is my understanding that your living arrangements have changed since our last appointment.” Dr. Antonius looks at me through steel-framed glasses as he palpates my testicles. Great. Small-talk while a man is touching my balls is just what I need.

“Yes. I got a housekeeper.”

“Does the arrangement work well?”

I shrug. “The house is certainly cleaner.”

Dr. Antonius must understand from my short answer that I’m not in the mood to chit-chat. Besides, he’s already sent his message, loud and clear: We’re watching you. Instead, he cuts straight to the chase. I get the same questions every time. Have I had sexual intercourse since my last session in the Capitol? No. I suppose a hand job from Cashmere doesn’t count. I don’t want to get into it. Do I get erections in the morning? Yes. Do I  have orgasms when I masturbate? Yes. Have my orgasms changed? No. Has the frequency of my masturbation changed? I hesitate ever so slightly before answering “no” to that question, and I think the doctor notices, because he raises an eyebrow – but doesn’t comment on it.

“Last time, we discussed the issues you described of getting and maintaining an erection.” I look away, clenching my jaw. “You took the drugs I prescribed for you, didn’t you?” I nod.

“Do you feel like they helped?”

Hesitating slightly, I nod. I blush. I’m deeply uncomfortable discussing this with him. “Peeta…” Dr. Antonius takes off his glasses and leans back in the chair. “There is no reason to be embarrassed or ashamed. It’s perfectly normal.”

“You’re saying it’s normal for a 31-year-old man to be impotent?”

He shakes his head. “You’re not impotent, Peeta. You said so yourself that you are able to get an erection, maintain it, and have orgasms when you are touching yourself.” Crap. I hate this. “You have learned some techniques, which you and the other victors use admirably, but it is not an ideal situation for you sexually. Take the fact that you are heterosexual, but sometimes must have sexual intercourse with men, for example." I raise my  eyebrows at his choice of words. _Must_. He clears his throat before he speaks again. "I mean, you _have_ intercourse with men... So, the fact that you find it challenging to get aroused is to be expected, considering the circumstances. The same applies  when you are having intercourse with women, although to a slightly smaller extent.” He corrected himself, but we both know that I’m not doing this because I want to.

“The problem is likely to increase as you get older, and we may need to increase your dosage. Do let me know immediately if you experience any problems on the current dosage, okay? If there is a problem, we need to address it immediately.” Or Dr. Antonius, too, will get into trouble with Snow.

I leave his office with two vials of pills and an assurance that I don’t have any sexually  transmittable diseases.

I’m ready to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do you think about dark!Peeta? Please review, or chat with me on Tumblr. I’m mockingjayflyingfree. Thank you to everyone who has read, favorited, bookmarked, reviewed, shared and recommended this story! I'm overwhelmed by the response TMW has received. It is so inspiring! 
> 
> The next chapter is written in Katniss's POV.


	8. Children of the Seam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is "only" one version of this chapter, but there will be two versions of chapter 9 - one here on AO3 and one on FFN. 
> 
> And as always, thank you to Lbug84 and Chelziebelle - what would I do without you?
> 
> Galeniss alert!

**Katniss POV**

 

With Peeta gone, it’s very quiet. Especially at night. There’s no one to play poker with. Haymitch won’t come over to play with just me. There's no one to sit beside a fire with after the children are asleep. On the nights when Peeta and I didn’t play poker, we would simply sit in the same room, both with a cup of tea and a book. There was little or no talking, but still, he was _there_ , and now he’s not. I find myself missing his presence.

It’s so quiet. Is it odd that I find it even more quiet now than it was before, even when we didn’t say anything?

 

* * *

 

I find myself sitting in a corner in the living room. I don’t know how I got here or how long I’ve been sitting here. I’ve already walked Arrow to school, and I don’t hear any noise coming from upstairs, so Ivy must still be napping. My body is shaking. Tears are rolling down my face. Gale is gone. He is _gone_. And I’m all alone.

After my father died, I had nightmares about being left alone. I would dream of a place where no one would find me. Or worse, where no one would _want_ to find me.

There were other nightmares, too. I’d dream of losing someone. It was often my father, but not always. Sometimes it was someone else, someone I couldn’t identify. But I knew losing that elusive person would destroy me forever; I wouldn’t be able to go on. I would become like my mother – a shell of a person who wasn’t really alive.

Perhaps that was the reason why, when Gale asked me to marry him, it took me several weeks to give him an answer. Was Gale that person? The one I couldn’t live without if I lost him? And if so, was that reason enough to accept his proposal... or perhaps it was the very reason why I should say no?

And what did it mean that I didn’t know? How are you supposed to _know_?

It hurt him when I didn't immediately answer yes.

 

* * *

 

The phone rings and I hesitate before answering. I’m not used to talking on the phone. I never had one living in the Seam.

It’s Peeta. Hearing his voice, I sink down on the floor, my back against the wall. He’s so far away. What do I say?

I’m empty.

He sounds hesitant. He initially talks about the garden, giving me instructions about seeds and trees – it’s clearly just an excuse he's made up, and a bad one, too. I know the garden isn’t the real reason why he called, but he doesn’t seem to get to the point. If he has a point, that is. I don’t say much, letting him do all of the talking.  Tears have started to roll down my cheeks, but I don’t want him to know how broken I am. So I say nothing.

He’s quiet for a few seconds. Then he asks, “How are you doing, Katniss?”

I’m tempted to hang up, if only to avoid answering. “Why do you ask?” I try to dodge his question.

“You just seem so… far away.”

“I _am_ far away.”

“You know what I mean.”

Yes, I do know what he means. My chest is like a big, black hole. “I’m tired, Peeta. That’s all.” I can barely get the words out. I know he can’t see my tears, but still, I think he must understand that I’m crying.

I hang up, and then I take the phone off the hook so he won’t be able to call me again. For some reason, I just know that he will.

 

* * *

 

_Our first kiss was in the afternoon after his last reaping. Gale’s name was in there 42 times, and yet somehow, the odds were still in his favor. He was free. He knew his future was in the mines, but still, he could live. Perhaps not to old age, as few miners do, but at least he wouldn’t die in the Hunger Games._

_I, too, had been granted another year to live._

_It was a beautiful day, and the sun warmed my skin. We slipped into the woods together, but for once, we didn’t hunt. Instead, we shared a bottle of white liquor that Gale had gotten in a trade at the Hob. I’d never had white liquor before, and I thought it tasted terrible. I still think it tastes terrible. Gale laughed when he saw my face as I had my first sip, and suddenly, he kissed my lips. The kiss was soft and I don’t know how long it lasted._

_The sun, the liquor, and our first kiss helped to keep the train that was speeding off towards the Capitol away from my mind. A train with two blond merchant children. The train carried away Madge Undersee, my only friend at school. I said goodbye to her before she left, during her precious hour of transition. Her father was crying uncontrollably, and her mother had been sedated. Madge wore a gold pin with a mockingjay on it. I'm not sure why I remember that. On the train with her was Peeta Mellark, the baker’s son, the boy with the bread. I didn't say goodbye to him._

_Everyone knew they were both as good as dead._

_When Gale ended our kiss, releasing me, his eyes met mine. He looked nervous. Scared, even. “Didn’t you…” He cleared his throat. “Didn’t you want me to?”_

_I never contemplated kissing him. It had simply never crossed my mind. I never gossiped about boys like the other girls, never even looked at them. I was too busy trying to survive. But I saw something in Gale’s eyes that day, something that made my body feel alive. So I leaned in and kissed him again. And again. We laid in the shade of a tree and my skin, no longer warmed by the sun, was kept hot by his body. We didn’t go home until nightfall._

_Since that day, we were together._

 

* * *

The days pass. Slowly. I do my best to keep on a happy face for the children when they are awake, but the darkness comes at night, when they are both asleep. I sleep with them in my bed now, to ward off the loneliness. Their warm bodies and steady breathing make me feel safe.

I have to force myself to eat. My milk production is finally back up, but I don’t have any reserves. It wouldn’t take much to lose my milk again.

I try, I really do.

I’m so tired.

But I can’t sleep.

 

* * *

 

_When Gale asked me to marry him, we were in the woods, in the same spot where he’d given me my first kiss exactly two years earlier. I had survived my last reaping, and I, too, was at last free. I would live._

_But I couldn’t give him an answer. I told him I needed time to think. He accepted it at first, but as the weeks went by, and I was still unable to answer, he grew more frustrated._

_“Is it me?” Gale asked one day, confused and hurt and perhaps even a bit angry that I kept telling him I simply didn’t know if I wanted to marry him. “Are you unsure about me and how I feel about you?”_

_I shook my head. “No. I’ve never doubted you.”  It was true. I knew he loved me, that he’d do anything for me._

_Was I hesitating simply because the two of us getting married was what everyone expected? I knew that people thought we were a couple long before that first kiss in the woods. If I married him, would it be at least in part out of some kind of expectation? Because marrying miners was what Seam girls did? Our options were very limited. There were few job opportunities available to us. I was making a living as a hunter, but I knew it was dangerous, and I was only able to do so because Cray turned a blind eye to it. I knew that could change at any moment._

_Gale also said that Cray was looking at me in a way that he shouldn’t. Gale knew I was vulnerable._

_Or was my hesitation all because of me? I would lay awake in bed at night, long after Prim had fallen asleep beside me, thinking about it. Trying to figure out what to do, what to answer. I loved Gale. I knew that I did. But I could see something in his eyes sometimes, something I couldn’t quite understand. I didn’t even know what that something was. At first, I thought it was passion. That there was some kind of passion that I, a young and naive girl, couldn’t understand. I’d felt the evidence of his desire for me many times, but Gale never pressured me. He always respected my "no." But as I gradually let his hands wander more, allowed him to touch me more intimately, and finally to bring me release, I realized my passion could easily match his._

_So passion wasn’t the difference between us._

_“Marriage means children,” I whispered. “And I can’t… What if we can’t feed them? What if they are reaped?”_

_We hadn’t been together yet, not truly. We had done a lot of things, but we had never crossed that final line. It was too dangerous for a poor Seam man and his equally poor Seam girlfriend. If I got pregnant…_

_“I want children. **Your** children. We’ll find a way.” _

_“Find a way to save them from the Hunger Games? You know we can’t do that.”_

_His shoulders slumped. “There are a lot of Seam children, Katniss. The odds are in our favor.”_

_I shivered. Could I live my life, hoping someone else’s child would be reaped so that mine would be safe? Hoping for someone else’s misfortune? How could he say that so easily?_

_“They were in our favor, weren’t they?” he continued when I didn’t answer._

_Yes, they were. We were both out of the eligible reaping age, despite taking tesserae._

_“We can be careful,” he whispered, unbraiding my hair. I closed my eyes, feeling his loving hands accidentally brush my ear as he combed his fingers through my black hair. “My mother said… there are times of your cycle that are safer.” I blushed. I couldn’t believe he’d talk to his mother about this. “And I could… try not to finish inside you.” I blushed even more deeply. But thinking about being with him in that way only made my core throb harder. I opened my eyes and turned around in his arms, facing him._

_“Do you really think that will work until I’m too old to have a baby?”_

_“I’m not sure,” he murmured in my ear. “Because I plan to make love to you as often as I possibly can.”  I giggled as he playfully kissed my neck; it tickled. “But even if it doesn’t, it would hopefully limit the number of children we’d get, so that we could feed them.”_

_He stopped kissing my neck and looked deeply into my eyes. He looked so scared. Scared that I’d say no. Suddenly, I hated the Capitol. Hated them for forcing us have this conversation. We shouldn’t have to. “Okay,” I finally croaked, my voice barely audible. “I’ll marry you.”_

_I was a virgin until our wedding night, as a good Seam girl should be, even though it was only just._

 

 

* * *

Haymitch knocks on the door.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he says. I don't like how he keeps calling me that. “Mind if I come in?”

He looks almost sober, and anyway, Ivy’s asleep. I nod my head and step aside, making room for him to enter Peeta's house.

“How are you doing?” he asks.

I’m startled, but quickly recover. “Fine. I’m… fine.”

He cocks his head. He has Seam gray eyes like mine - like Gale's, and they seem to stare right into my soul. “You haven’t been outside playing with Arrow in days.” Oh. I had no idea he paid attention to my schedule. “And you’ve looked pale and tired lately. Besides, Peeta called me. He’s worried about you.”

To my horror, tears start rolling down my cheeks. And I _tell_ him. I don’t know what it is about Haymitch that makes me open up. He doesn’t interrupt me, not once, he only listens. Once the words spill out of my mouth, they don’t stop. I tell him about Gale and the hunger and the fear. And the grief and the darkness. He gives me a glass of white liquor and I taste it. I cough when I feel it burning down my throat, but he doesn’t laugh.

“It was bound to happen sooner or later, Katniss,” he says after I’m done. “Just give yourself time to grieve. It takes time.”

“How long does it take?” I whisper.

He shrugs. “Sometimes it takes all your life.”

I look up at him, and his eyes meet mine. He’s lost someone, too.

“Who was she?” I’ve never seen Haymitch with anyone. If he had a wife or a girlfriend, it must’ve been many, many years ago.

“She was… well, it doesn't matter who she was. She died many, many years ago. So did the rest of my family.”

“Why?”

He laughs bitterly into his drink, before shaking his head. “You don’t want to make the Capitol look like fools, Katniss Hawthorne. You _really_ don’t want to do that.”

I nod. I don’t quite understand his answer, but I do know that I shouldn’t ask any more questions about it, it’s not safe. Not here. Perhaps it’s not safe anywhere.

“Why is Peeta really in the Capitol?” I realize this topic might not be any safer than Haymitch’s long-lost girlfriend and family, but something has been gnawing at me since the first time Peeta told me he was leaving for the Capitol. A sinking feeling that something is wrong.

Haymitch laughs bitterly and pours himself another drink. “Will you do me a favor, Katniss?”

“Of course.” I owe this man a lifetime of favors.

“When Peeta comes home, don’t ask him _anything_ about the Capitol. Not unless he brings it up first.” I must look very confused, but he continues. “We all do what we have to do to survive.” 

After Haymitch leaves, my emotions rise up to the surface. I am angry. No, I am _furious._ At Gale. I _hate_ him for dying. For doing this to me, to us. For leaving us. Ivy won’t even remember him. All I have are three photos of him. _Three fucking_ _photos_.

I replay every fight we ever had in my head. What stupid things we’d fight over. Chores. Hunting. He said I was risking my life for nothing. I said I needed to feel useful, that I needed to get _out_. I accused him of being selfish for wanting to keep me inside the fence, and he in turn accused me of being reckless. It was a stupid fight because, in the end, Cray took the decision away from me by making sure the fence’s electricity was on around the clock. We fought about his mother, my mother, his brothers, chores again, what to spend money on…

My mother sits with me, attentive in case I have anything to say. I don't think I do. I don't think any words will come.

“I hated him sometimes." My voice is quiet and cracks more than once.

“I hated your father sometimes, too.”

This surprises me. “You did?”

She laughs. “Did you think we were saints, your father and I? We fought, too. We just did our best to hide it from you and Prim. When you love someone, there is so much… emotion. With all that love, it’s overwhelming. And love is surprisingly close to hate sometimes.” She pauses. “I hated him too, sometimes… after. For being gone.”

She holds me as I cry.  

 

* * *

 

Mandatory viewings are a nuisance. I don’t think the Peacekeepers actually go to the Victors’ Village to check if the TV is on, but I can’t take the chance. So I do what all good Panem citizens do - I turn the TV on and pretend to be interested. There’s a speech from President Snow. He’s looked the same for the last 30 years, at least. I’ve seen old footage of him, and he doesn’t appear to have aged one bit. Or perhaps more accurately, he’s always looked old and worn. The speech is boring, because I’ve heard it all before. I zone out. I don’t need to be reminded of the historical sins of the districts. But then there is footage from a Capitol party, and suddenly, I see _him_. Peeta.

I hardly recognize him. In 12, Peeta usually wears jeans and t-shirts, or simple sweaters. Perhaps a collared shirt on a good day. At the Capitol party, he’s wearing a golden suit that sparkles. His hair looks different, too. But it’s not just the way he looks, it’s all of him. He’s just… _different_. His arm is wrapped around the waist of a woman. I don’t know why the sight makes me uneasy. Perhaps it’s the little twisting in his thumb, the way his jaw clenches.

He’s nervous.

I’m surprised by his choice of female companion. She could possibly be pretty, but it’s hard to tell with all that make-up and the massive wig.

I turn off the TV as soon as I am allowed to.

I dream of wigs and make-up and Peeta’s hands.

 

* * *

 

_Gale didn’t give up hope that I would change my mind about having children. I knew he wanted them so badly, but still, I said no every single time he brought it up. I broke his heart, over and over again, and I knew it. He tried to hide it, but he was angry. I, on the other hand, resented him for asking. He knew my feelings about having children before I married him. I could never come to terms with the idea of having children, only to spend my life desperately hoping someone else’s child would be murdered instead of my own. Why couldn’t he just let it go?_

_In the end, nature made the decision that the two of us were unable to come to on our own. Gale’s plan of how to avoid pregnancy worked for five years... until one day, it didn’t. That was the day my world filled with terrors I knew - and some I’d never even known existed. But there were also new joys. Having Arrow opened up a whole new spectrum of emotions for me, and once that door had been opened, it could never be closed. Life in the Seam is cold and hard and short. But Arrow made it feel sweeter, softer, and warmer._

_Perhaps that was why having Ivy was my idea. I’ll never forget the look on Gale’s face when I actually asked him if we could have another baby. Ivy was conceived not even two weeks later._

 

* * *

Hazelle and my mother knock on my door early in the morning. I’m exhausted after a long night spent somewhere between wake and sleep. That’s where my dreams reside. They aren’t exactly nightmares, but they’re not pleasant, either. I’m walking, walking, walking, endlessly in a maze, and I can never find my way out of it. When I wake up, I’m often more tired than I was when I went to bed. I blink against the bright spring light and let them inside.

They must both see the dark rings under my eyes. “We’ve come to take the kids for the day so you can go,” Hazelle says.

“Go? Where am I supposed to go?” I ask them, confused.

“You’re going to go over to Haymitch’s place.”

“Haymitch?” I feel like an idiot. It’s too early in the morning, I’m too tired. What does Haymitch have to do with this?

“He came and talked to me a few days ago,” my mother says. “He asked if Hazelle and I could take care of the children for you. Said he needed you to help him out with something while Mr. Mellark is out of town."

It seems a bit odd. Haymitch has never asked me to do anything for him before. Why would he now? But I suppose that if he asked both my mother and my mother-in-law to come here, it must be important. I give them instructions about Ivy’s feedings and nap times. Ivy happily plays with my mother’s necklace as I leave the house. Arrow is ecstatic to spend the day with his grandmothers.

Hesitantly, I knock on Haymitch’s door. I find him awake and reasonably sober, which is rare for him at this time of the day.

“Come in,” he says. He’s already dressed and ready to go outside. And why shouldn't he be? It’s a beautiful spring morning. The sun is finally starting to feel truly warm. Birds are singing in the distance. He leaves the house and I follow him. We walk in silence for a while, my stride a few steps behind his. To my surprise, we walk to the Meadow, all the way to the far end. Finally, Haymitch stops. He’s found a secluded spot between some trees. They have only just started turning green, the fresh and very light green color of spring.

“Here,” he says.

“Here what?” I ask him.

“This is my grieving place. This is where I came after my Hunger Games. To cry, to scream, to sit in silence… and to think that I wanted to die.” He looks at me. “Do you have a grieving place?” I shake my head. “Does your husband have a grave?” I shake my head again. “I thought not. Well, here you go. You can borrow my grieving place. I’ll be back this afternoon... if you’re not home by then, that is.”

And then he walks back over the Meadow, leaving me alone here in the sunshine.

At first I don’t know what to do. Cry? Scream? Do I really want to die? I’m too numb to do any of those things. So for a while, I sit in silence. I sink down on my knees, on last year’s dead grass. There’s a bird in the tree just above me, singing.

Gale would’ve known the name of the bird species. I try to force the thought away, but I can't. The tears fall before I even realize. When there aren't any left, I scream. And when my throat is raw and my voice can’t carry anymore, I curl up and decide that I want to die.

That’s how Haymitch finds me after the sun sets. I'm nearly catatonic, lying in the fetal position, and shivering from the cold. He gently helps me to my feet, lends me his coat, and helps me home to the Victors’ Village. My mother already has tea ready. Ivy is asleep, but Arrow curls up in my lap. I can feel his warm, tiny body against mine as he hugs me and holds me tight. I kiss the top of his head, and my silent tears drip down onto his black hair.

“I miss Daddy too, Mommy,” he says, and I realize just how much my son understands.

“I know,” I whisper.

 

* * *

 

I've been in bed for hours, ever since the children went to sleep. I can’t sleep, though. Ivy is lying next to me, not in her own bed, with her little nose pressed against my shoulder. Her breaths are slow and steady. I can just about make out her features in the darkness. On her other side, Arrow stirs in his sleep. Then he sighs deeply, and keeps sleeping.

It’s so quiet.

I twist the narrow strip of metal around my ring finger and wonder to myself when the right time is for a widow to take off her wedding band? Right after the funeral? But there wasn’t one. After a month? A year? Never?

After I touched myself while thinking of another man?

No, not that.

With trembling hands, I take off my wedding band. It’s a bit of a struggle to get it over the knuckle, but I succeed. I look at my left hand. It looks so naked. It’s too dark to see it now, but I know that tomorrow morning, I’ll see a narrow strip of pale skin where the ring has been.

I carefully slip out of bed to avoid waking the children. I have a small cardboard box, beautifully decorated with somewhat faded drawings of flowers. I keep it in my wardrobe, high up, where the children can’t reach it. I’ve had it since I was a child - my father made it for me. In it, I keep the few treasures I have from my childhood. The bow I wore on the first day of school. A book of plants, which has been in the family for generations. A photo of my father. A dress that both Prim and I wore when we were babies.

I take down the box, careful not to make any sounds so I don’t wake the children. I open the box and put the ring inside. Then I close the lid and put the box back on the top shelf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter hurt, but it was necessary. What do you think about chapter 8? I love hearing from you, whether it's PMs, reviews or asks on Tumblr (I'm mockingjayflyingfree). :) 
> 
> Next: Peeta in the Capitol.


	9. Putting on a happy face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: Forced prostitution. Mentions of murder. Mentions of abuse. Drug and alcohol abuse.
> 
> There are two version of this chapter. The full one is posted here on AO3, and does include an explicit Peeta/customer scene. In the FFN version, I've deleted that scene plus rewritten a few other paragraphs. Which version you choose to read is entirely up to you.
> 
> Thank you so much to Lbug84 and Chelziebelle for betaing and prereading! Also thank you to everyone who has read, favorited, subscribed, left comments and reviews, kudos, sent PMs or contacted me on Tumblr. I'm overwhelmed by the response this story has received.

After the doctor’s appointment, I still have a couple of hours to spare before it’s time for my first client of the season. There’s a message from Finnick for me in the reception. He’s having dinner with Gloss and wants to know if I want to join them. I’m not hungry, all I’ve been able to think about all day is Katniss and how upset she sounded on the phone. I curse myself for being so far away. I decide to have dinner in my room, alone.

I try to call home again. The phone is still off the hook, so I call Haymitch instead. He answers after quite a few rings. He doesn’t even say hi, he just starts off with a long string of profanities. It’s a bit much, even coming from him.

“Did I wake you, Haymitch?” I say dryly when he finally shuts up.

“Fuck you, Peeta. I was finally getting some decent sleep, and _then_ you decide to call me? What the fuck is the matter with you?”

I know he must’ve been sleeping in the kitchen or the living room if he was unable to block out the phone ringing. “Where were you sleeping?”

“On the kitchen floor. Why?”

“How can that possibly be 'decent' sleep?”

“Semantics. Whatever. Why did you call me? I’m guessing it wasn’t just to hear my voice?”

There is no reason to beat around the bush. Haymitch knows I wouldn’t call him at a time when I knew he’d most likely to be asleep for nothing.

“I talked to Katniss earlier today.”

“Oh, did you?” He chuckles. “And you were away for exactly how long before you had to call her?”

I grit my teeth. “Three days. But that’s beside the point. Have you talked to her lately?”

“No.”

“Do you think you could… check on her?”

“Why?”

“She sounded… I don’t know… I just got the feeling that something was wrong.” I don’t want to tell Haymitch that I think Katniss was crying. She’s such a private person, I don’t think she would want him to know.

 

* * *

 

 The first client of the season is always the worst. I look at the name on the schedule I’ve finally read and grit my teeth. Sonoria Phyllips. I guess it could be worse. She’s a woman, for starters, which helps. She’s also not into urine or whips or anything overly kinky. What I hate the most is when a customer insists on handcuffing me. I like to be in control. I’m a victor, and my experience in the arena has taught me not to put myself in a vulnerable position. Mrs. Phyllips has never asked for that.

We have dinner first, as usual. Most of the clients want more than sexual gratification - that would be easy to get in much cheaper ways than buying a victor’s services. They also want to be seen publicly with a victor. I notice the photographers, and I know that Sonoria Phyllips probably called them to let them know where I was going to be tonight.  That is, if she didn’t actually hire them herself, of course. There’s nothing I can do about the photographers, so I try to pretend they aren’t there. I hate knowing that people in 12 will see me on the front page of the gossip magazines a few days from now, people like my mother or Katniss. I wonder if Katniss notices the front pages of the magazines. I can’t imagine that she would ever buy one, but she does go shopping in the town regularly.

It’s probably best not to think about 12.

I’ve done this for so many years now that I can keep a conversation going with Capitol citizens without even really having to think about it. Mrs. Phyllips – I wonder how anyone can stand being married to her – laughs at my jokes, which is good, because it means she’s in a good mood tonight. Hopefully this won’t take too long. I have no idea how old she actually is – it’s almost impossible to tell with people in the Capitol. Only when they reach their 60s does it become impossible for the surgeons and make-up artists to hide the signs of aging, and that’s when you can tell that someone is, in fact, old. Mrs. Phyllips is in that Capitol gray zone between the 20s and  60s.

Her hair is now a vibrant shade of purple, which is apparently the color of the season. That is likely to change in a few months, as Caesar Flickerman’s hair color during the Hunger Games interviews usually sparks a new trend. Other than that, she’s sporting the strangest outfit I’ve seen in the Capitol in a long time – and that’s saying something. The fabric is silvery, looking almost metallic. The boot-like shoes are also odd, and there are what appears to be flickering lights along the hem of her dress.

“I love your dress,” I tell her.

“Oh, thank you so much!” she says enthusiastically. “It’s haute couture.” I don’t doubt it for a second. She is, after all, stinking rich. Of course.

“Looks great on you.” I can’t help taking a stolen second look at the lights on the hem of her dress, and she notices.

“It’s inspired by retro space movies,” she says.

“Retro space movies?” I ask. I have no idea what she’s talking about, and clearly, she notices.

She sighs, as if she thinks I’m far from sophisticated, coming from an outlying district. Which would be true, I guess, but at least she doesn’t roll her eyes. “They made them way back in the day, before Panem. From the time when humans went to the moon.”

“Someone’s gone to the moon?” I laugh. Surely this must be a joke.

“No, it’s true. We read about it in History; it’s one of the few things I actually remember from school.” She laughs as if that’s funny. “No one’s done it in centuries, though. Going into space is just not productive.”

No longer laughing, I take a sip of water, trying to process all of this new information. It’s frankly quite hard to believe. But it wouldn’t be the first time that the history books in the Capitol are not the same ones as in the districts. Our history books tend to be heavy on the sins committed by the districts. Whatever happened before the uprising is not that important, apparently.

“Anyway, old space age movies are all the rage these days,” she says. Of course, what’s hot in the Capitol is more important than history books. I decide it’s time to change the subject, as talking about going to space clearly makes me look like an idiot, and I manage to steer the conversation over to Capitol soap operas, which keeps her occupied during the rest of the main course.

While waiting for dessert, I excuse myself and go to the bathroom. I have a small pharmacy in the pocket of my suit. I take two blue pills, leaving the light pink ones for later in case they are necessary.  I hesitate slightly before putting the smaller, round pill with a happy face on it back in its vial. Unfortunately, I have to do this with a clear head. It would be too dangerous to lose control. I’ll save that one for after.

Returning to the table, I can see Mrs. Phyllips has pushed our chairs closer together. As much as I dislike it, I know that she considers photos of herself kissing her customers as part of the deal, a souvenir of sorts. So I give her what she wants – a public display of affection for the benefit of the cameras. There is not even a stirring in my nether regions as she attempts to suck my tonsils out. Her hand is moving downwards over my chest and belly, but I discreetly divert it before she can move even further down and discover just how little of an effect her kiss is having on me.

I’m definitely going to need those light pink pills.

Fortunately, she goes to the bathroom as soon as we get to her suite, and I use the opportunity to take three of them. I think a maximum dosage is in order tonight.

Mrs. Phyllips comes out of the bathroom wearing nothing. She must’ve had some work done since the last time I saw her. Perhaps more than just some, but at least the surgeon didn’t try to make her into something monstrous. I once had a customer who actually had _square_ breasts. 

“What do you think?” she says, twirling around.

I don’t understand what she’s talking about at first. Then the light catches something on her skin. She’s gotten some kind of glittery tattoo on her upper body. They are white roses, extending from just above her breasts and down over her belly, spreading out over her thighs. “They look incredible,” I lie. But they don't. They look like splotches of glue and glitter, like a mess a child would make on construction paper. Worst of all, they remind me of President Snow. I’m sure that was the intention, though she can’t know my instinctive reaction was the opposite of what she had thought. 

I decide to just get this over with. The trick is to get the balance right, taking enough time for the customer to feel like she got her money’s worth, but not spend a second longer here than I have to. Mrs. Phyllips usually likes it hard. And hard can equal fast, if I play my cards right.

The problem is _I’m_ not even remotely close to being hard, despite the pills, and that’s something that needs to be fixed quite urgently. I give her a long kiss and whisper in her ear. “I’ll be right back.”

In the bathroom, I consider taking my clothes off, but decide against it. If I don’t get it up at first, taking my clothes off will only make her discover my sorry state earlier. But I do unzip my pants and take my cock in my right hand, pumping it furiously. I close my eyes, forcing the image of Katniss away. I can’t think about her right now. I won’t. I refuse to drag her into the mud with me. Instead, I try thinking about a Capitol porn movie I like to watch sometimes. It's less arousing, but still sufficient. I sigh in relief when the combination of the drugs, my hand and the memory of the porn movie starts to help.

I go back to the bedroom and decide to find out if Mrs. Phyllips really does want it hard and fast tonight. I take charge, backing her up against the wall and pressing my body against hers. My left hand captures her wrists over her head against the wall, while my right pushes her thigh up against her chest.

“Mmmmmmm… Peeta!” she purrs.

The sound of her voice does nothing for me, but decide I’m hard enough to grind myself against her. My hand travels downwards. Making sure the female clients are ready makes things easier. She is – although I don’t think the fluids are all hers. There's an almost sickeningly sweet scent of… what is it, peach? It's a good indication that she’s had some help. It seems like all Capitol women use some kind of perfume or scent down there. Either way, she responds eagerly to my fingertips.

I kiss her neck to avoid having to look at her face or kiss her on the mouth again. When I bite her lightly, because I know she likes to have some marks on her body to show to her friends in the morning, she screams in pleasure. I plunge two fingers into her and she bucks against me.

“Peeta…” she moans, but I cut her short.

“Shut up. I make the calls tonight.” We both know, of course, that it’s not true. If she says jump, I jump. But she nods eagerly. She wants to cling to the illusion that I’m in control, because it turns her on. I know I have to be careful, though. I can’t dominate too much.

I keep my clothes on, as it fits the illusion of me being in control. A hard, fast fuck suits me just fine tonight, because I’m pissed off. I’m pissed because I have to do this in the first place, and because I know just how long the next two weeks are going to be. It also doesn’t help knowing that Mrs. Phyllips is likely to be one of my least disgusting customers.

I release her wrists and remove my fingers from her. She opens her eyes, pouting her lips. I know she was close to coming. I turn away from her and rummage through the contents of the bedside drawer. The standard assortment is there, as always. I take out a pair of handcuffs and dangle them from my index finger, which is wet with her juices and that peach crap. “Put these on,” I say. It’s a bit of a risk. She might not approve.

But she does. “Where do you want me?” she says, her voice husky. My honest answer would be “nowhere," but I can’t say that, so I nod towards the other wall, where there are discreet rings at several heights made for just this purpose. She offers me her wrists, and I handcuff her, her hands still high above her head.

It’s time to get down to business. Making her come with my hands for the first time doesn’t take long. She was almost there already. She comes loudly, and bites down on my neck as she does. Damn. I’m going to need some of Cashmere’s magic cream for that in the morning. It’s something she gets from 1 that helps take care of her bruises. Being a female victor is riskier. The women stand a greater chance of getting physically injured, and no customer wants to see evidence of what the previous customer did to their purchase. 

I unbutton my pants and push my boxer shorts down, taking out my cock. I’m fully erect now, and I silently thank Dr. Antonius and his assortment of Capitol drugs. He’s singlehandedly making sure that Snow’s entire prostitution business doesn’t collapse. I hope he gets paid a generous salary.

Mrs. Phyllips makes a strange whining sound when she feels my cock against her peach-scented pussy. Ugh. She’s going to ruin peaches for me forever. I feel the anger well up inside me again. I press her right thigh up against her chest again and push into her. I know I’m being rough, but I see from the corner of my eye that she likes it.

“Harder…” she moans.

I stop. I want to keep up the illusion of me being in control here. It’s what she wants. “Harder… what?” I ask her. I intentionally keep my voice low and deep.

“Harder… please,” she says.

I do as she says. Her moans are high pitched and whiny as I pound into her. I sneak a hand down between us and touch her clit, a bit too roughly at first, but I ease up the pressure when I hear in her moans that I’m going too far. She’s probably still sensitive from her first orgasm. She comes again with minimal effort on my part.

This has been going on for long enough and it’s time to end it, which means that I’ll need to come somehow, too. The problem with the Capitol drugs is that although they help you get and maintain an erection, they’re not as helpful when it comes to actually having an orgasm. My customers generally require that I have one, and orgasms are hard to fake when you’re a man. I shut her out, at least mostly, working furiously to reach my own release. I think she comes once more before I finally do, too.

When I pull out of her, I’m covered in sweat.

I uncuff her and pull my pants back on. There are no ceremonial goodbyes. Mrs. Phyllips loses interest in me as soon as we're finished.

Not that I mind.

I go back to my room to take a long, hot shower, using my favorite detoxifying rose-scented setting. I’m exhausted, yet wired up. My heart rate simply won’t slow down. The first client of the season is always the worst, I tell myself over and over, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.

I look at the phone. It’s my lifeline to 12, but I can’t call anyone. I certainly can’t call Katniss, and I can’t even bring myself to call Haymitch. There is no one I can share this with... except the others who are also working on Snow’s orders tonight, all to make sure that someone they love stays safe. I can’t be alone with my own thoughts and disgust tonight. I put on some clean clothes and go to the rooftop bar, as I promised Cashmere this morning. Enobaria is sitting by our table. One by one, the other victors will come here after they’re done working for the night.

“Short gig?” I ask her, sitting down. I contemplate getting some alcohol, but decide against it. Instead, I take the smiley face pill and wash it down with some water.

“Yeah. My idiot customer wanted me to be in charge.” She smiles, baring her fangs. Her clientele is quite different from mine. It’s curiously divided. They are either really rough, wanting to dominate a woman who acts and looks pretty intimidating, or they want her to dominate over them. I know she much prefers the latter.

“So it was quick and dirty?”

She laughs. “Yes. You?”

“Same.”

“I don’t know what’s worse: fucking boring, sexually frustrated Capitol housewives, or fucking their twisted, equally sexually frustrated husbands.”

I roll my eyes. “I’ve done both, and I wouldn’t recommend either.”

She giggles. It is always a curious sight – Enobaria, who frankly looks scary, has been known to giggle. It is a complete clash, but I’ve realized that that is Enobaria in a nutshell. Everything clashes. You never quite know where you have her. Her face suddenly becomes serious when she looks over my shoulder. “Oh.”

I turn around. Finnick and Gloss are making their way over to us. Diamond isn’t with them. I don’t want to stare at them, so I look back at Enobaria instead. We both know what was on their schedule for tonight. “Pretend as if nothing’s happened,” she mutters. “At least until they bring it up themselves.” I nod and she gives me a small smile. No teeth this time.

Finnick sits down by our table, and I’m surprised to see the drink in his hand. I’m even more surprised to see that it clearly isn't his first of the night. Finnick never drinks. And Gloss… looks like he’s ready to kill someone. Snow, most likely.

“To the glory of the Capitol,” Finnick says, lifting his glass in a toast. None of us follow his example, but he downs his drink anyway.

“That’s the most fucked up thing I’ve done in years,” Gloss hisses. “She’s only a _girl_ , and…”

I shake my head warningly. We must be careful, because someone is always listening. “Where is she?” Enobaria asks.

“In her room. Cashmere is trying to calm her down.”

“What happened?” I ask. It must’ve been bad if they’re both this upset.

Gloss grits his teeth. “It started out okay. We tried to ease her into it, and she was a good sport, she really was. It’s just hard, you know, to fuck someone you look at as a kid. She _is_ a kid. Anyway, you do what you have to do. But then…” His voice trails off.

“Then our customer had a special request,” Finnick continues. “Namely me fucking her cunt, while Gloss was fucking her in the ass.”

“Finnick!” Gloss scolds him. “Don’t speak of her like that.”

Finnick rolls his eyes. “Since when did _you_ become so sensitive about language?”

“I’m not. But you’re talking about a 19-year-old girl from _my_ district here.”

Finnick gets the attention of the waitress and asks for another drink by lifting his glass up and smiling his brightest, most charming smile. The waitress looks like she’s about to faint. “Sorry. Anyway, turns out she’d never done _that_ before.”

The world is starting to become sparkly. Dammit. I shouldn’t have taken that pill, it makes it so hard to concentrate.

“You mean she’d never…” I can’t believe she got through several weeks in the Capitol last year without someone taking her in the ass.

“No. It became a bit _too much_.” I can’t say I blame her for feeling that way. Gloss pauses as the waitress comes over with another drink, and doesn’t continue until she’s out of earshot. He speaks in a low, hushed voice. “It never even happened. She freaked out before I could get even get started. It got pretty ugly.”

Oh shit. This is bad.

“I guess we’re off to the presidential palace in the morning to beg for a second chance,” Gloss says, his eyes dark. “If not…”

We both know what will happen if Snow doesn’t give Diamond a chance to make up for it. Someone in 1 will be dead very soon... and Diamond’s life will never be the same.

I take a deep breath. “I’ll go check on her. Maybe Cashmere needs some help.” Finnick looks down into his drink, and Gloss nods unhappily. We all know Diamond most likely doesn’t want to see either of them right now. That leaves me, Enobaria and Spar – when he comes back from his own appointment. But neither of the District 2 victors is a good choice.

I’m not sure if I’ll find them in Diamond’s suite or in Cashmere’s. Because Cashmere’s is the only one I’ve visited before – many times – I go there first. I knock on the door. I’m starting to think that they must be in Diamond’s suite when I hear light footsteps on the other side of the door. “Who is it?” It’s Cashmere’s cautious voice.

“It’s me.”

Cashmere opens the door and I step inside. She closes and locks the door behind me. She’s wearing a stunning dress – Cinna really is a fashion wizard - but her hair is disheveled, and she looks distracted. I look down at her wrists, and see bruising on them. There are bruises on her neck, too. Did some sick bastard try to choke her? It must have gone beyond your average breath play if she is this bruised. Cashmere sees my look, but shakes her head quickly. Her eyes give me a clear warning: Not now. I nod in response. She’s been through abuse before, and we both know she will have to endure it in the future, too. As much as I hate having to let go of the fact that someone’s hurt her, I have to focus on the problem at hand: Diamond.

“Where is she?”

Cashmere sighs. “In the shower.”

“How long has she been in there?” Trying to cleanse yourself in the shower is an age-old victor prostitute ritual. It doesn’t help.

“Half an hour.” She narrows her eyes. “You’re high.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” I shake my head, trying to clear it. “I wouldn’t have taken those damn pills if I had known what happened.”

Her hand is on my upper arm, squeezing it lightly. “Thank you for coming,” she murmurs, leaning her forehead against my chest for just a few seconds.

I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear before going to the bathroom door. I knock on it, hopefully hard enough for her to hear me over the sounds of the falling water. “Diamond?” No reaction. I knock harder and raise my voice, “Diamond!” The door isn’t locked. Cashmere must have wisely disabled the lock function. But I can’t go inside, I’m afraid I’ll freak her out. She has to come out on her own. “Come out of the shower. You can stay in there forever, but it’s not going to help. Please. We need to talk.”

I’m almost convinced she hasn’t heard me. But then she turns the shower off. I wait, listening to some muffled sounds I can’t quite interpret. Then she opens the door.

Diamond’s hair is down and dripping wet. Her face is swollen and red, and she’s dressed in a bathrobe. It’s white and fluffy and thick.

She looks like she’s 11 years old.

“I know I fucked up, Peeta.”

She doesn’t sound like she’s 11.

“Oh, Diamond…”

She looks defiantly at me. She’s a victor. She’s so brave. But I see the nervous twitch that crosses her face for a split second. Then it’s gone.

I get her a glass of liquor. Behind me, Cashmere sits on the edge of her bed. I try to fight off the sparkles because I have to keep a level head right now. I motion for Diamond to sit down next to Cashmere. I pull out a chair, place it in front of the bed and sit down on it, resting my elbows on my thighs. When Diamond looks at her mentor, her mask falls, and she cries. I watch the two women embrace each other. Cashmere tries to comfort Diamond while she’s crying herself. It’s heartbreaking. But we don’t have the time for heartbreak right now.

There is no need to go over what has already happened. Both Cashmere and I already know. “Diamond… We need to talk about what happens next.” I hate to be the one to bring this up. Comforting and crying, which seems to be Diamond’s job, is easier.

Or maybe not.

“Is he going to kill my family?” she whispers.

I grit my teeth. “That’s what we have to try and avoid.” I tell her about Gloss’s plan – that the three of them will go to Snow first thing in the morningand beg for a second chance. What I don’t tell her is that I consider this plan to be grasping at straws. Snow won't go for it. In fact, it might already be too late. Who knows if the peacekeepers are entering her family’s house as we speak, cloaked by darkness?

We need to keep Diamond on her feet. She might lose a parent or a sibling tonight, but Snow isn’t stupid enough to kill off her entire family. He did that once – with Haymitch. And he did it again, although sequentially, with Johanna. The end result is a dangerous victor with nothing to lose. A loose cannon on the deck of President Snow’s ship. Diamond might have to learn the hard way what not to do, but we have to keep her going, so more people don’t die.

“No one blames you for reacting the way you did tonight,” Cashmere says. She’s holding Diamond’s hand.

“My family might. If they find out why…” She can’t even complete her sentence. I hope she hasn’t given up already.

“Most victors don’t tell their families about what we… do,” I say softly. “It’s easier on them if they don’t know. Whatever happens, it’s probably best if you don’t tell them anything about what took place tonight.”

“How do you do it?” Diamond asks. “You’ve both been doing this for so long. How do you get through it?” She’s not crying anymore, her voice is stronger. She’s in survival mode now. Good. That’s where we need her to be.

My eyes meet Cashmere’s. I nod to her, letting her answer this question. “We all have our own coping strategy, but they are all basically different versions of the same. Snow can sell our bodies, but he can’t sell our souls. I try to put up a mental barrier between my body and my mind. My clients can do whatever they want to my body, but they can’t touch who I really am.”

I can’t help taking a stolen look at her bruised wrists. I wonder if _I’ve_ touched who Cashmere really is? Is the barrier up when she’s with me, too? I think it is. Perhaps not all the way up – but it’s still there.

“How do you create that barrier?”

“No one but you can answer that question,” I tell her. “Try to think about the people you are protecting. Not… during, but before. And after. Remember who you’re doing this for.”

“What if I end up resenting them?” she whispers.

There is a real chance of that. I’ve seen it happen before. But thankfully, I’m a good liar. “You won’t. Because they are innocent, just as you are.”

She laughs. A hard, cold laughter that doesn’t belong to a 19-year-old. “I’m not innocent, Peeta. Believe me.”

I know what she did to win her Hunger Games, but she was no worse than any of the rest of us. “Yes, you are.” Yes, she is innocent. The Capitol did this to her, to all of us.

“We’re all here to help you in any way we can,” Cashmere says. “But in the end, you’re the only one who can decide to pull yourself through this.”

“I was a fool for volunteering,” Diamond says, and she starts crying again. Cashmere holds her while giving me a look. I’ve seen it before, but under other circumstances. It’s the look telling me to leave. I didn't volunteer, so I can't help Diamond come to terms with that.

I pat Diamond’s back comfortingly and mutter goodbye. Diamond’s voice stops me as I’m about to open the door. “Peeta… Who are you protecting?” Her voice is crystal clear. She’s strong, this one. I hope she’ll make it.

“We’re all protecting someone,” I answer, after hesitating slightly. “Names don’t matter.”

My list of people has expanded lately. By three.

In the hallway, I dry swallow another smiley face pill. I need more sparkles. I can’t bear to go back to my suite, I can’t bear to be all alone. I’ve painted a big black X on Katniss’s back by agreeing to Haymitch’s stupid plan, and talking to Diamond has forced me to face just how dangerous it is to be on a victor’s list of loved ones. When I first came home to 12 a victor, I chose to stay away from Katniss to avoid making her into a target. Now, more than 14 years later, I’ve gone ahead and done it. There is no question the Capitol knows about her. Dr. Antonius’s words were a not so subtle reminder that they are watching us. Always.

I’ve always been a good, obedient victor. I haven’t given Snow any reason to kill anyone in my family. I do as I’m told. I’ll just have to continue doing that, I guess. Continue making sure that Katniss and her children won’t get hurt, either.

I go back to the bar. The rest of the night is uneventful, with the exception of Finnick getting wasted and the two female victors from 1 not being here. Spar shows up after another hour. He talks too much and too loudly. He tries so hard to be an adult, but the more wasted he gets, the more clear it becomes that he’s just a lonely, damaged kid. He gets even more drunk than Finnick. But still, we are a team. All of us. It’s not a question of trust, it’s simply that we are in this together. We rely on each other to stay more or less sane, because we don’t have anyone else. There’s no one else who understands.

I help Finnick to bed. I leave him two hangover pills and a glass of water on the nightstand. Then I set his alarm for seven in the morning. He needs to get up for that early morning visit to Snow.

I wake up alone, without Cashmere. I’m not surprised.

 

* * *

 

 

Diamond’s father dies in a tragic accident in the luxury handbag factory he owns. 

Diamond’s strong, though. She doesn’t give up. She doesn’t try to kill herself. Finnick gets her drugs, but not too much. Just enough to get through it, day by day.

But I can tell something’s died inside her. She’s gone further down the road to desperation in less than one year than any of the other young victors I’ve seen so far.

 

* * *

 

My schedule is busy. The drugs from Dr. Antonius are the only reason I’m able to get through it. Has it ever been this bad? I can’t remember. I do what Diamond does: Take it day by day. Pill by pill.

I try calling Katniss, but she never picks up the phone. When I call Haymitch, he says he’s gotthings under control. He casually asks about Diamond. He’s heard about the freak accident on the news, too. There’s not much to say, really. Haymitch understands from my silence.

 

* * *

 

I look at the gifts I’ve gotten for the children. I picked up a red racing car for Arrow. I considered getting him a toy train, but I don’t want to cause any hurt feelings for anyone. What if I get him a fancy Capitol train, and he prefers it to the train Gale made for him?

I bought Ivy a doll. They have all kinds of fancy dolls in the Capitol, but this one looks almost normal. Like something a little girl in 12 could play with.

But what to get for Katniss? Should I get her anything at all? I can’t make up my mind.

My problem solves itself when I walk into Cashmere’s hotel room and find Cinna there. “Peeta!” He says, giving me a quick hug the way he always does when we meet. I’m genuinely happy to see him. I know he’s part of the reason why I had so many sponsors during my Hunger Games. Besides, he’s actually a good guy, despite being from the Capitol.

“How are you doing?”

“Good.”

Cashmere comes out of the bathroom, wearing a red dress.

She looks apologetically at me. “Sorry, Peeta, last-minute change of plans.” I don’t have to ask her what kind of plans she has. Earlier today, there wasn’t anything on her schedule before her dinner “date” at seven, but clearly her schedule has been filled. She looks stressed. I wonder who her customer is.

“Take care,” Cinna says to her as all three of us leave her suite. He looks serious.

She nods. “I will. See you later,” she says with her well-practiced Capitol smile. She walks down the hallway in heels that are a mile high. Her hips sway confidently, her purse dangling from one finger.

These District 1 girls are brave.

I look at Cinna from the corner of my eye. He must hate this. Hate that they’re using him to use them. Use us. Impulsively, I ask him, “Would you mind helping me with something?”

Cinna seems to snap out of whatever he was thinking about. Cashmere turns the corner and is gone. “Of course.”

“Would you mind showing me your shop?” I know he has his own designer line, he’s wildly popular in the Capitol.

Cinna looks surprised. “Of course.”

A short car trip later, we’re in his storefront. It’s very different from most of the other Capitol boutiques I’ve seen before. Cinna somehow manages to add an element of understated, serene elegance to the Capitol garishness. “Very impressive,” I say, pretending like I know anything at all about fashion. I don’t. But I do recognize great design when I see it.

“I, uh… wondered if you could help me with something.”

“Anything for you, Peeta.” It’s not just a phrase, he actually means it.

“I was wondering if you could help me find a… dress.”

“For someone… special?” Cinna raises an eyebrow.

“Yes.” I don’t hesitate. Yes, she is special.

“I’m going to have to know a bit more about this special someone to find the perfect dress for her. Is she from the Capitol?”

I shake my head. “No. She’s from 12.”

Cinna smiles. It may be the first true smile I’ve seen from a Capitolite this season. “Tell me more.”

He’s amazingly good at getting me to open up. I’m reluctant at first – talking about Katniss feels dangerous, because I suspect someone may be listening, but what does it matter, really? Snow already knows. So I answer Cinna’s questions as best as I can. He wants to know how old she is, what her dress size is. How am I supposed to know? When it’s obvious I have no idea, he uses a few computer simulations, and from my memory, he comes up with what looks like it could be the right one. He wants to know about her interests, her complexion, her eyes… I get a bit too carried away when describing her eyes, I think. How they can change color, from slate to silver to cloudy.

Then he asks one last question, which I find odd. “If you could use only one word to describe her to me, what would it be?”

“Fire,” I say, without hesitation.

Cinna’s face breaks into a big smile. “I have the perfect dress for her,” he says.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know - this chapter was pretty bleak. But you'll be happy to know that Peeta goes home to 12 in the next chapter. 
> 
> Have you checked out Lbug84’s 7 Steps, featuring Indian!Peetha? If you haven't already, you should! It was updated today, too! And if I start spelling Peeta with an H, it's probably because I've spent too much time betaing and thinking about Peetha. :)
> 
> More news: Lbug84 and I will post the last chapter of Absinthe soon, and we're also working on the sequel, Everclear. Just how complicated is it to be four people in one relationship? Well, it's pretty damn complicated. 
> 
> I love to hear from you - please tell me what you think! Leave a comment, send me a PM on FFN, or talk to me on Tumblr (I'm mockingjayflyingfree). Thank you for reading!


	10. The Mockingjay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: Mentions of abortion and prostitution.
> 
> Thank you so much to my lovely ladies Lbug84 and Chelzie for betaing and prereading!

Coming home to 12 is different than it used to be. The house doesn’t smell empty anymore. I can tickle Ivy’s round cheeks and hear her giggle, and see Arrow’s ecstatic face as I give him the car I brought him from the Capitol. Katniss says he even takes it to bed with him.

Having the three of them here, in my house, makes the contrast between the Capitol and 12 even bigger than it used to be, and it’s surprisingly difficult to deal with. The first few days after I come home, I spend hours in the shower as I attempt to wash every single molecule of Capitol perfume and make-up off my body. I try, but the memories can’t be washed away.

Something has changed in the three long weeks that I was gone, even though I think Katniss tries to hide it from me. She talks even less than she did before, not to mention that she looks tired and pale. She seems distant, and she doesn’t eat enough. My instincts when I talked to her on the phone were right. Something is wrong.

I go to visit Haymitch. I’ve brought him some liquor from 4, but he is already drunk, which is hardly a surprise.

“Peeta!” He gives me a bear hug. I’ve never understood why he does that. I think it must have something to do with our quasi-father-and-son relationship that has somehow evolved over the years, although my own father never gave me any bear hugs.

“Long night?” I say, looking at his red-rimmed eyes and the number of empty bottles on the kitchen table. I know he doesn’t like to sleep in the dark.

“They always are.” He tries to pour himself another glass, but I take the bottle from him.

“I think you’ve had enough, Haymitch.”

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t object. I wonder when the last time he shaved was. And looking at the state of his kitchen, I’m starting to wonder if I should find him a housekeeper as well.

“So, how was the Capitol this time?”

“Unbearable, as always.”

“But you do bear it.”

“Only because I have no other choice.” Had I turned into a full-fledged alcoholic like Haymitch, I could have gotten out of these ‘working holidays’. I wouldn’t be desirable anymore. All that would be expected of me would be one trip to the Capitol a year, to mentor, which of course is unbearable in its own way. But at least I wouldn’t have to fuck strangers. I was getting there…  until Katniss and the children came along.

I grit my teeth. I haven’t taken drugs since I left the train station in the Capitol, even though I have some pills stashed away where Katniss can’t find them. Just in case.

“So, how… have things been while I was gone?”

Haymitch sits down on the only chair that’s not covered in junk, puts his feet up on the table and opens the bottle from 4 anyway. “Oh, you know… They’ve been the same as always,” he says after taking a large gulp straight from the bottle.

“No, they haven’t.”

Finally, he meets my eyes. “No, they haven’t.”

“What’s happened to Katniss?”

He sets the bottle down on the table. “So you noticed, did you?” I nod. It was impossible not to. “It’s finally caught up with her, Peeta.”

“What’s caught up with her?”

“Gale.”

 

* * *

 

I guess I should’ve understood. Once Katniss was no longer in danger of starving to death and her children were safe, she would finally be able to take in her loss. Now that I know, it’s even harder to look at her pale face as she tries to pretend as if nothing’s happened. How am I, Peeta Mellark, emotionally stunted victor, going to be of any help to her? I’ve never actually lost anyone I cared about.

Well, there was my father, of course. But when he died, we hadn’t been close in years. There were too many disappointments on my end, from long before the Hunger Games. Disappointment and anger that he wouldn't stand up for me, nor would he protect me from my mother. Coming back a victor didn’t make things easier. I didn’t trust _anyone_ anymore. And on my father’s end, if the person I was before the Hunger Games wasn’t a disappointment to him, then surely the person who came back from the Capitol was. At least then it gradually became apparent just how much damage the Games had done to me.

My father didn’t really try. No one in my family did. They would only come visit me in the Victors’ Village occasionally, and when they did, it was never pleasant. I was either silent or crass. Not to mention I was often under the influence of white liquor or drugs. It was impossible for me to hide my anger, and I suppose I didn’t really want to, either. Whether those feelings were directed at my family, at myself, at the Capitol, or all of them, I wasn't sure. But the end result was still the same: I didn’t have a family anymore. Not really.

Still, I did grieve for my father when he died. But his death wasn't the end of my world. Neither was Madge’s death. I knew, as soon as our eyes met on stage, just after our names had been pulled out of two bowls, that she would have to die in order for me to live. We knew each other pretty well even before we were reaped, and we became close in the time we spent together on the train and in the Capitol. But I knew that if I had to choose between her and me – and I did – I’d choose my own survival over hers.

I lost my allies in the arena too, but they didn’t mean anything to me. Under different circumstances, perhaps I could have been friends with several of them. Cato, Thresh, and maybe a few others. But from the beginning, I recognized the Hunger Games for what they were:  One big play. I was the best actor, and I was the only one left on the stage in the end.

So that is the short list of people I cared about who have died, but I know it’s not the same. I’ve never been in a real relationship with anyone. I’ve never _loved_ anyone. Well, except Katniss, that is. But I never lost her, because she wasn’t mine to lose. I didn’t really know her. How can I possibly understand what she’s going through right now?

I can’t.

I’ve lost a lot: my family, my dignity, my innocence, and the freedom to choose what to do with my life. But I’ve never lost someone I loved, not the way Katniss has.

I try to think of something to say to her. To tell her that even though I don’t understand, I sympathize.  But the only things I can think of are just clichés. Empty phrases. They make it glaringly obvious how little I understand. And she wouldn't want pity anyway.

So I don’t say anything. Instead, I try to show her I care in other ways. By being there, helping her in whatever way I can with the children or the house. It doesn’t feel like it’s enough.

I still haven’t given her the dress I got her from Cinna’s boutique. When I was on the train heading back home, I’d look at it lying there, neatly folded inside the thin, luxurious wrapping paper that was almost silvery. Soon, I'll give it to her. But not right now. Seeing how things are with her, I simply can’t. The gift feels far too intimate. It’s something you’d give to your girlfriend or your wife. Katniss is neither to me. When I see her grieve for another man, giving her a dress feels inappropriate. She’s Gale’s wife, not mine.

Though... I can’t help but notice that she's not wearing her wedding ring anymore.

 

* * *

 

I’m stunned when I open the door and see my mother standing on my doorstep. When was the last time she came here – five years ago? Maybe six? Arrow is at school, Katniss and Ivy are napping upstairs. Katniss is having a bad day. I’m glad that I’m the one who opened the door, not Katniss.

I simply stare at my mother, dumb-struck. “Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?” she says. I instinctively flinch at the tone in her voice. I’ve heard it too many times before. She is 65 years old, marked by decades of hard physical labor and little happiness. She is no longer a threat to me, but she still scares me. Every time she’s near me, I become the little boy who was terrified of her temper and the rolling pin, and it infuriates me that I’m so weak.

Wordlessly, I let her into the house.

“How was the Capitol?” she asks me. So she knows I’ve been there. I didn’t tell her I was leaving, because I hardly ever speak to her, but I suppose she’s read about it. For some perverse reason, she likes to read the Capitol gossip magazines.

“Good,” I say. “The usual.” There’s no reason to elaborate.

My mother inspects the hall, the living room and the kitchen. I can tell by her expression that what she sees does not live up to her standards. Ivy’s toys are lying on the floor, and the dishes from breakfast still haven’t been done. I told Katniss to leave them since she didn’t look well. I was planning to do them myself, but then my mother showed up.

She raises an eyebrow. “Clearly Katniss Hawthorne must have _talents_ other than housekeeping which justify her staying in your house,” she says.

I can hardly believe my own ears. I knew Katniss’s name would come up, but I didn't expect her to be this direct – or rude - with me after being in my house for all of three minutes. _This_ is why she comes to my house for the first time in half a decade?

I have a feeling this is going to be a short visit.

“Excuse me?” I say, my lips tight. I have to fight to control my temper.

“Oh, Peeta, I’m not an idiot. People have been gossiping about you two for months now.” They have? Dammit. Does Katniss know? I really hope she doesn’t; she has enough to deal with as it is. My surprise must show, because she laughs a little. “You didn’t know?” I shake my head. I could explain to her how little contact I have with anyone who doesn’t live in the Victors’ Village, but I don’t want to get into it. “I was sure Katniss would’ve told you about it.”

“So she… knows?”

My mother snorts. “Of course.” Fuck. Why didn’t she tell me? “I talked to her mother.”

“What did you say to Mrs. Everdeen?" I can only imagine how that conversation must’ve gone.

“I told her how I felt about my son, the victor, shacking up with a Seam widow with two children.”

I have to take several deep breaths to keep my temper in check. “And how exactly do you feel about it?”

She narrows her eyes, and I realize that I didn’t dispute her use of the phrase “shacking up."

“I told her that it’s inappropriate. Her daughter’s reputation is ruined beyond repair, and she will never find herself another husband.”

I’m tempted to tell her that few Seam widows do, but I think better of it. “I don’t really think she’s looking for new husband, Mother,” I tell her. “Her main concern is making a living for herself and providing for her children.”

“Well, in that regard, I suppose she found you preferable to Cray,” she says. I know that what she’s saying is actually true, even though my mother hopefully doesn’t know just how close Katniss came to going to Cray’s door.

But her mentioning Cray, and her obvious disapproval of prostitution as a way of survival – when she has no idea that her own son, the precious victor, is doing just that, perversely also ensuring her _own_ survival – pushes me over the limit. “I want you to mind your own business. How dare you come to my house and insult Katniss and me? Katniss has never done anything to you, and I… I’m the only reason you’re still alive.” As the words escape my lips, I know I’ve gone too far. Her eyes widen. Dammit, I shouldn’t have said that. My mother can _never_ find out the truth about my trips to the Capitol. “Get out of my house,” I hiss.

But as usual, she doesn’t listen to me. “I knew that Katniss was the girl you talked about in your Hunger Games interview, Peeta. Everyone in our family did.”

This comes as a shock. I want to ask how she knew, how anyone other than-

“Rye told your father," she explains.  My father couldn’t keep a secret worth a damn from my mother. He was too scared of her.

“Look, Peeta, I don’t care anymore. I was worried you were going to tell her after you came back from the Hunger Games, because I was sure she would dump that Hawthorne boy like radioactive waste from 13 if you did. Like any Seam girl, she knows how to get the most out of any situation. Thankfully, you never did, so no harm was done.”

Your son miraculously comes home from the Hunger Games, and what you worry about is whether or not he’s going to tell a girl you don’t approve of that he’s in love with her?  Breathe, Peeta. Breathe.

“I’ve seen you with all those women in the Capitol magazines, Peeta. I get that men have… _needs_ that we women have to satisfy. If you want someone in 12 to take care of those _needs_ while you’re here, then fine. I’m sure Katniss Hawthorne will do. You’re a victor, you can do whatever you want. I wish you’d be more discreet about it, but it’s too late now.” She walks a bit closer to me, and I have to fight the urge to back away from her. She points her index finger at my chest. “But you’d better make sure you don’t get her pregnant, Peeta. I will _not_ have any bastard Seam grandchildren. And don’t you for even one single second consider marrying her. Am I making myself clear?”

The conversation has suddenly gone from infuriating to being almost hilarious. As if I could ever marry Katniss? Even if by some miracle she’d say yes, there is no way that could ever happen. My mother thinks a marriage between Katniss and me is unacceptable because of the perceived difference in social status between the two of us. But the _actual_ reason why it would never happen is that Snow would never allow a victor to get married to a Seam widow. It would interfere with my ‘job’, and besides, a marriage to what everyone in the Capitol would consider a poor nobody in 12 would be impossible to sell to the tabloids. Even though the Capitolites for some reason adore the ‘star-crossed lovers’ angle, Katniss and I would be far too different for their liking. Being ‘star-crossed lovers’ is much cuter and more interesting in teenage movie stars than it would be in thirty-something adults with lots of baggage.

Even if I married her, Katniss would end up dead faster than I’d be able to say “I do.” And getting Katniss pregnant? My mother has no idea about the injections I get in the Capitol, rendering me sterile.

I take a deep breath and try to forget about the rolling pin. She doesn’t have it here now. She has no power over me anymore. “Katniss Hawthorne does _not_ sleep in my bed,” I say, trying to keep my voice low. “I don’t care what all the housewives in Town gossip about because they have nothing better to do, it’s _not_ true. And…” I’m about to tell my mother to get out of my house, and this time I’ll physically throw her out if I have to if she doesn’t listen - when she suddenly looks over my shoulder, towards the stairs. I turn around, even though I already know who she’s looking at.

She’s standing halfway down the stairs, her eyes still heavy from sleep, her braid mussed. She’s holding Ivy on her hip.

“Mrs. Hawthorne,” my mother says, her voice taking on a sickeningly sweet quality. My stomach turns. I know that voice; I’ve heard it too many times before.

“Mrs. Mellark,” Katniss answers, hesitantly coming down the stairs. My mother studies Ivy closely as she plays with her mother’s braid. Even though Ivy is a girl and a beautiful child, I know she could never meet my mother’s standards. Not with her black hair and her olive skin. Katniss straightens her back as my mother studies the two of them, and I can’t help but feel proud of her.

“Your daughter looks so much like you.” My mother says with a smile on her face, but we all know she means it as an insult.

“Goodbye, Mother,” I say pointedly, placing my hand on the small of my mother’s back, in effect pushing her towards the door. I don’t want these two women to be in the same room for even one more second. It will only end in disaster.

I close the door behind my mother, and I can’t help but sigh in relief that she’s gone.  I’m also glad that she didn’t say anything inappropriate in front of Katniss, at least, even if everything she said to me was completely out of line.

Katniss’s back has slumped now that my mother is out of the house. Ivy is still tugging at her braid. “So what did she call me?” she says, her voice tired. “Seam slut?” I stare at her, my eyes wide open. “Whore?” she suggests when I don’t answer.

My mouth is dry. “Katniss, why… why would she say that?” I manage to stutter. So she does know. My mother was right.

“It’s what everyone thinks, anyway.” I’m speechless. She smiles when she sees the look in my eyes, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know?”

“That’s what my mother came here to tell me,” I say. Perhaps I shouldn’t tell her this. I should try to protect her.

“I can’t believe you didn’t know.” She laughs. “Even my mother-in-law thought that’s why I moved here, Peeta.” I’m unable to say anything, so I simply stare at her. It’s been a long time since I felt like the innocent one. Katniss doesn’t understand the dynamics of the Capitol, but it’s clear that _I_ don’t understand the dynamics of 12. I’ve been removed from them for far too long.

“Did _you_?” I finally find the voice to ask her. “Did you think that?”

She slowly shakes her head, her eyes not leaving mine. “No.” Her voice is firm, but low.

I’m not sure whether she’s lying.

“Would you have moved here even if you had thought that was the case? That… that was what I wanted?” I have to ask her. I’m a Capitol prostitute. I don’t judge. But she doesn’t know that.

“Yes.” Her answer is immediate, there is no hesitation. I don’t have to ask her why. She’s holding her chubby baby on her hip. Only a few months ago, Ivy was starving. “And I’m not ashamed of it.” There’s fire in her eyes now. They dare me to try and defy her.

I wouldn’t dream of it. She has no idea how well I understand her.

“Good,” I tell her. “You shouldn’t be.”

I could tell her a lot about prostitution. About how there are times when you _are_ ashamed, even though you shouldn’t be, because you are doing it to save someone. Because you have no other choice. But she doesn’t need to know that. I’m so glad she doesn’t have to know. What if she hadn’t met Haymitch that winter night, when she was on her way to Cray’s? Where would she be now if he hadn’t? Would she and her children still be alive? Or would she perhaps be pregnant with Cray’s bastard child? I shudder at the thought. Everyone in 12 knows what happens to the girls and women who get pregnant after going to Cray’s door. They are given two choices – the knitting needle or being thrown into the river, late at night when no one can see. Most choose the knitting needle, but for more than a few, the end result is still the same.

I know I can’t keep Katniss safe from the gossip and the rumors, but I can at least keep her safe from Cray.

 

* * *

 

The days pass. As the Capitol slips further from my mind, I’m able to relax more. I don’t smell synthetic roses wherever I go anymore. I’m able to touch myself again, to bring myself to release in the shower. I still feel terrible for thinking about Katniss while I do, but I can’t help myself. It’s a conflicting feeling, knowing that people in 12 think I want other services from her than just being a housekeeper. The idea of potentially behaving like one of my clients in the Capitol is nauseating.

My fantasies about Katniss used to be, well, fantasies. Now that she is living in my house, and I interact with her every day, that has changed. My old fantasies blend with real life situations. What I usually think about first, which gets me rock hard in an instant every time, is the look in her eyes, the one she had when she looked at me that one time in the hallway – just before I left for the Capitol. When she was on fire, despite her tears. That moment of reality is where my new fantasies begin and my imagination takes over. There are no tears, and her fiery eyes meet mine as she reaches out to touch the line of my jaw. Sometimes she’ll say things like, “I want you, Peeta.” Fantasy Katniss saying my name in a husky voice is such a turn-on. Other times she won’t say a word, she’ll simply show me that she wants me.

It’s surprisingly easy to keep memories of my Capitol customers away, perhaps because Katniss is so different from them. The same goes for my other casual victor hook-ups over the years, including Cashmere, although that’s something else.

My fantasies all end the same way, with me looking down on, or up into, her face dissolving in pleasure as her body molds into mine and we are one. That’s when I spill myself into the warm water, moaning her name, desperately trying to stay quiet.

Katniss, of course, has no idea. The fact that she’s in mourning makes me feel even worse that I think about her in this way.

But day by day, it seems like things get a bit easier for her. She talks more, and I  no longer have to practically force her to eat. She laughs with Ivy sometimes, and she goes out to play with Arrow.

A few weeks after my return, we play poker for the first time, just the two of us. She quickly catches on when I try to play badly on purpose. She’s seemed so distracted lately, and I want to make sure that she wins. She instructs me to behave like a man and at least try to win. I roll my eyes and do as she says. She still beats me, of course, even though it takes her longer than usual, and her triumphant grin as she piles up all the chips in front of her after we are done makes it very hard to hide my own smile.

I decide that now is a good time. “Wait here,” I tell her and quickly run upstairs. I can’t think about this; I can’t think too much about what I’m doing because then I’ll lose my nerve. Taking care to be silent so I don’t wake up the children, I open my suitcase, which Katniss thinks is empty, and take out her Cinna-designed dress.

“I got you something,” I say when I come downstairs again, a bit breathless. “From the Capitol.”

Her eyes widen in surprise. “A gift?” I nod. “For me?” I nod again. “You didn’t… you didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” I say. “But I wanted to.” Only now do I realize that she might hate it. What if she hates it? My heart is pounding. I don’t know why this dress is so important to me.

Katniss gasps as she takes out the dress from the exclusive white paper bag, unfolds it and holds it out in front of her. She goes to the hall to look at herself in the full-length mirror. The color is perfect on her. Orange is a difficult color to pull off, but Katniss does it perfectly. The dress is very simple by Capitol standards, but here in 12, it would be considered fancy. The pure, elegant lines of the dress, the exclusive fabric – both hallmarks of Cinna’s designs – look amazing on her.

“It’s… It’s too beautiful for me,” she whispers, her pupils wide as she studies her reflection in the mirror.

I can see how she might think that, having grown up in the Seam. I can’t imagine she’s used to dresses like this one. But I disagree. “No, it’s not,” I say, with absolute conviction in my voice. “It’s perfect.” No dress could possibly be too beautiful for her.

Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. “Thank you,” she says. Had I expected her to hug me, like she did before I left for the Capitol? I don’t know. She doesn’t, but the small smile on her lips will have to be enough.

 

* * *

 

I wake up from a nightmare, gasping for breath. I look at the alarm clock. 4 am. Fuck.

I dreamt that Katniss was in the Hunger Games, too. She was high up in a tree, injured, with a burn on her thigh. I was standing on the ground, looking up at her, together with the other careers. While they were discussing how to kill her, she met my eyes through the leaves, and I could see hatred in them. Or perhaps revulsion, I don’t know. Then she started climbing. Higher and higher, the tree was never ending.

Then she was gone. Up into the sky, where I could not follow.

I go to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. I can forget about getting any more sleep tonight. The two hours I’ve gotten tonight will have to do.

I decide to go downstairs and bake bread for breakfast. My feet are bare and I try to walk as quietly as I can, since I don’t want to wake Katniss and the children.

Through the closed door to the bathroom Katniss and the children use, I hear... sobs. Heavy, desperate sobs.

Without thinking, because if I do, I might not dare to, I open the bathroom door. Katniss is curled up on the floor, her entire body shaking. One look at her face, and I know she’s been crying for a long time, perhaps hours. There are imprints of the tiles on one cheek. I sink down on my knees next to her and lift her up as if she’s a child. I carry her to her bedroom, taking great care to be quiet so I don’t wake Ivy in her crib, and set Katniss down on the bed. To my surprise, she clings to me, refusing to let me go. She cries even harder now. I’m afraid her sobs will wake up Ivy, but in the darkness I can just about make out Ivy’s sleeping form and hear her regular, deep breathing.

Katniss tries to speak, but she’s unable to.

“Shhhhh,” I whisper into her hair, holding her tight. “You don’t have to say anything.”

When her crying finally subsides, her eyes close and her breath is slow and even. She must be falling asleep from sheer exhaustion. I wonder if she’s gotten any sleep tonight at all. I gently try to lay her down and put the covers over her without waking her. But as I try to leave, her eyes suddenly fly open and she grabs my hand as if she’s drowning. “Stay with me?” she whispers.

“Always,” I murmur. She turns around, giving me room to lie down next to her. I hesitantly put an arm around her.

My knees fit perfectly behind hers.

She falls asleep.

Her body is small and warm next to mine. I know this is far from proper, but I can’t bring myself to get out of her bed, to leave her. I promised her I’d stay.

And she’s so warm.

I close my eyes and somehow, I find sleep.

 

* * *

 

I wake to the sound of Ivy’s laughter. She doesn’t cry when she wakes up in the morning, and she’s usually in a very good mood.

When I open my eyes, I find that Katniss has turned to face me in her sleep. I take the opportunity to study her features. She looks so beautiful when she’s sleeping. Her eyelashes are long and dark, and flutter slightly in her sleep. I wonder what she’s dreaming about. There’s a slight smile on her full lips, so I think it must be a good dream. There are tiny freckles on the bridge of her nose – I wonder why I never noticed that before?

But I’ve never been this close to her.

One of her feet is lying between mine, and my arm is resting around her waist. A quick look down my body confirms my suspicions that yes, I’m rock hard. Dammit. My erection isn’t actually pressed against her, thankfully, but it’s close. Too close. I blush and wonder how I can get out of this. I could try to slip out of bed without waking her, but while I'm trying to figure out just how to do that, Katniss wakes up. She must’ve been exhausted not to wake up immediately from the sounds of her daughter.

If she’s surprised to find me here, in her bed, she doesn’t show it. She doesn’t try to shy away from me, either. She rests, with my arm still around her waist, and I feel her even, regular breathing.

“Thank you,” she whispers. Ivy notices that her mother is awake and tries to get her attention. Katniss turns her head to look at her daughter. “I should probably…” her voice trails off.

I blush again. “Uh, yeah.” I scramble to get up so she can get out of bed, even though everything in me screams not to. I sit on the edge of the bed because I’m definitely not presentable right now. Katniss picks up Ivy, who smiles and laughs at her. Then she turns around with her baby in her arms and looks at me. She opens her mouth as if to say something, but it's me who finds words first.

"No nightmares.”

“What?”

“I didn’t… I didn’t have any nightmares.”

She must understand the significance of this somehow. Perhaps she’s heard more through the walls than I think, because she nods with a small smile on her lips.

I haven’t woken up this rested in… I can’t even remember how long.

 

* * *

 

 At night, instead of reading or suggesting that we play poker, Katniss sits down next to me on the couch.

“What do you dream of?” she says quietly. It takes me a few seconds to react. I’m mesmerized by her eyes, remembering what her irises looked like up close earlier this morning. They seemed to change color, from cloudy to silvery and then back to cloudy. Now they are a simple, but beautiful shade of gray. When I don’t respond, she continues. “You said that you didn’t have any nightmares last night. What - what are your nightmares about?”

“You didn’t seem surprised that I have nightmares. Have you… heard me?”

She’s blushing now. “Yes, sometimes I’ve… heard sounds. I don’t think the Capitol spent much money on soundproofing these houses.” She looks away, the blush still on her cheeks.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t intend for you to hear that.” I take a deep breath. I’ve never talked to anyone about this. Cashmere knows, of course, but she’s never asked – she doesn’t have to. She’s been in the arena herself. “Sometimes, my nightmares are very specific. About events that took place in the arena. I don’t know how familiar you are with my Hunger Games?”

“Not very,” she confesses. “I couldn’t… Madge was a good friend of mine.” I nod. I know. “I couldn’t really deal with seeing her… I only saw what I really had to. You know, the mandatory viewing. But even then, I tried to shut it out as much as I could. I was trying to protect myself, I guess.”

“I understand.” And I do. It was the first time ever that two merchant teenagers had been reaped from 12. Because of the tesserae system, most of 12’s tributes were from the Seam. Everyone knew we didn’t really stand a chance in the arena. We were as good as dead.

Well, that’s what everyone thought, anyway.

“Why did you team up with the Careers?” she asks, her voice serious. “And not with Madge?”

That’s what people kept asking me after I came home to 12 - alone. I could never give them a truthful answer. But with Katniss… it’s different. Perhaps she’ll understand? Madge was her friend, so she deserves to know the truth. Or perhaps after all these years, I simply need to tell someone? “I knew that only one of us could get out of the arena alive. I didn’t want to risk being in the position – however unlikely – that Madge and I would be the two last survivors. I could have never, ever come back to 12 if I had killed her.” She nods.

Still, in the end, despite my at least more or less good intentions, I ended up being responsible for her death.

There’s a less honorable part, too. “But I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that the most important reason was that I judged my own chances of survival to be better if I teamed up with the Careers.” My right hand trembles slightly. I try to hide it by folding my hands, but I see from the corner of my eye that she notices. I really wish I could have a drink. “Haymitch thought so, too.” When she doesn’t answer, I continue. “Yeah, Haymitch chose me. He chose me over Madge. That’s the kind of sacrifice you have to make when you’re a mentor. You have to choose the tribute you think has the best chance of surviving, and pretty much ignore the other one, because there isn’t enough sponsor money for both.” I can hear , without really intending to, that my voice sounds more aggressive. I don’t know why I feel as though I have to defend my actions to her. That I have to defend wanting to survive.

Her next words surprise me, though. “That young girl… What was her name?”

My fingers are now digging into my palms, nails nearly breaking through the skin. “Rue. Her name was Rue.” I have to fight back the tears now. “Sometimes I can’t even close my eyes because I see her little face as soon I do.”

“They called her the Mockingjay,” Katniss whispers. “Because she used the birds to communicate with Madge in the woods. I remember her so well because she teamed up with Madge, but also because she reminded me so much of Prim. And what you did after she was dead… with the flower. It was beautiful.”

I can’t talk about Rue anymore. “Well, sometimes my nightmares are about more specific situations. Such as Rue’s and Madge’s deaths. Or the mutts that were chasing after me. Other times… It’s a more general feeling of… loss. Of being all alone in the world. That no one would care if I died. And that I lose someone, someone I can’t… can’t reach. Or can’t save.”

“Who is that person?” Katniss whispers.

“I don’t know,” I lie. Because this is another thing she can’t know. That most of my nightmares are about losing _her_.

 

* * *

 

As soon as spring is in full bloom, the days grow longer and warmer.

There are still days when Katniss is barely able to get out of bed. Days when I cook her dinner instead of the other way around. When I take Ivy so that she can sleep.

I have my own bad days. When I’ve hardly slept in days, when I’m desperate to get a break to forget. When it takes everything I’ve got not to go to Haymitch and beg him for a bottle. Or to dig into the vials of Capitol pills that I keep hidden inside a pair of socks in my closet, where Katniss can’t find them.

I often think about that night in her bed. How well I slept, how well rested I was when I woke up. Perhaps it would be like that if I spent another night in her bed? Or if she were in mine? But of course, I can’t ask that of her, so I never mention it. She must see the dark rings under my eyes, but she never comments on them.

Does she think about that night? I don’t know. But it seems like all I can think about is her soft body next to mine.

Even though some days are dark and difficult, as the weeks pass, there are more good days than bad ones. It’s starting to feel like a strangely normal life. Sometimes it’s hard to remember why Katniss is living in my house. That it’s my house, not ours.

I don’t think I’m the only one who has noticed the shift between us. Haymitch thankfully only talks about it when Katniss is out of earshot. He makes rude remarks that I scold him for, but I know that he means well, in that strange way of his. And every time we have a fight, I bake him bread the next morning. Few things seem to make Haymitch happier than seeing me with bread.

I bake Katniss cheese buns for her birthday. I can’t sleep anyway, and when I hear that Ivy is awake, I serve her breakfast in bed. Arrow wakes up and comes to his mother’s room, too, and the three of them have breakfast in bed together. “How did you know it was my birthday?” she asks between two cheese buns. She really lovesthem.

“We were in the same class at school, remember?” I ask her. I don’t tell her that hers is the only birthday I still remember. I barely even remember the names of most of the children who were in our class.

“Oh.” She looks a bit guilty. “When is your birthday?”

“March second.”

“I’m sorry I missed it,” she says. “I didn’t remember.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I smile. Of course I never expected her to remember my birthday, why would she? I haven’t bought her a present, because giving her the dress still feels awkward. But I do go to the meadow and pluck her a large bouquet of spring flowers, and she looks happy when I give it to her. I also cook her dinner after the children are in bed.

For Arrow’s birthday, which is less than a week after her own, Katniss shyly asks if I can bake him a cake, and I happily agree. I suggest that we hold his birthday party here, even though she had planned to have it at Prim’s house. When I insist that it’s okay, she invites his whole class. 25 seven-year-olds run crazy through the house for two full hours, which has never been this filled with life and laughter. The chocolate cake shaped like a train is a huge hit. After the children are finally in bed and the worst of the mess is cleaned up, we are both absolutely exhausted.

“This is why humans don’t get litters,” Katniss laughs as she disposes of some chocolate cake she found under the couch. Who knows how it ended up there? She’s tired, but her eyes are still sparkling. She looks beautiful. Her hair is messy, she has smudged chocolate on her skirt, and she’s _glowing_.

I’m standing by the kitchen counter, leaning my lower back against it as I look out the window, into the garden. It’s a big mess, too. I wonder how the children have managed to turn everything upside down in only two hours.

She comes up to stand next to me, looking out at the garden, too. “Let’s leave that for tomorrow,” she suggests. I nod. “Thank you,” she says softly. “Arrow had a great time today. They all did.” I shrug. It was my pleasure. The house has been empty and silent for so many years, and filling it with the laughter of children was wonderful. I made sure to send all of the guests home with a gift bag  full of candy and a small toy, too. I know many of the children don’t get enough food at home – at least the Seam kids don’t, and I wouldn’t be surprised if many of the Merchant children occasionally go to bed hungry, too. I wish we could have given them food as well in that gift bag, but Katniss was afraid it would come across as charity, and Seam people are proud.

I absentmindedly look at the mess in the garden while I think about the children. I’ve been holed up in the Victors’ Village most of the time for more than a decade, and when I did have to go to the Town or the Hob, I never really noticed the children. Now, having met them, having seen them play, it’s… different. It’s hard not to think about empty tables and skinny children. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Katniss leaning in towards me. Instinctively, my head turns towards her, and then her lips meet my own.

It’s an accident. She only meant to kiss my cheek.

But she doesn’t move away. And neither do I.

We stand there, frozen. Her lips are soft and warm, and she smells faintly of chocolate cake and flowers. A moment later, my body reacts. It’s not a conscious decision when my hand finds the back of her skull, almost getting tangled in her braid as I pull her closer to me. The other hand finds the perfect curve at the small of her back. Her hands are on my chest, but she doesn’t try to push me away. My lips part slightly, and I feel that hers do, too. My tongue doesn’t delve into her mouth, like the Capitol clients seem to prefer, but I do taste her lips for just an instant. There is nothing artificial or man-made about how she tastes. No sugar or strawberries or vanilla. It’s just… her.

This is real.

A shiver seems to go through her body, and I hear a faint gasp. I don’t know whether it’s from her or me. Then she takes a step back, and I release her immediately. Her pupils are fully dilated, her eyes appear more black than gray. Her lips are a bit swollen, and her skin is flushed. I can barely breathe. I don’t know what passes between us in those long seconds while we stand there, our eyes locked. Then, breaking our trance, she murmurs “goodnight”, and leaves. I hear her steps disappear up the stairs, and then the sound of her bedroom door closing.

With shaking knees, I sit down by the kitchen table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe that I'm actually the author who wrote Glühwein and Absinthe? LOL It’s taken me TEN chapters and nearly 50,000 words to get to their first kiss – and it’s even a misunderstanding! 
> 
> What does Katniss think about their kiss? You’ll have to wait until chapter 11 to find out! 
> 
> Lbug84 and I just finished Absinthe (check it out if you haven’t read it already – if you like Everlark/Odesta foursome smut, that is), and we’ll post the first chapter of the sequel Everclear soon! Yay! I’m so excited to share it with you. By the way, have you read Lbug84's new fic 7 Steps? You should! It features Indian!Peetha!
> 
> I’m mockingjayflyingfree on Tumblr! Come talk to me! And I love reading your comments here on AO3, thank you so much!


	11. We're about to explode

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from Coldplay's song Atlas, which is on the Catching Fire soundtrack.
> 
> Thank you to Lbug84 and Chelzie for betaing and prereading!

**Katniss's POV**

The kiss seems to linger on my lips.

I look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I change out of the day's clothes. It's late, and I really ought to go to bed. But... I can't look away from the mirror. The woman staring back at me is so different. Her pupils are dilated, and her cheeks are flushed. And her lips...

They certainly feel different.

I don’t know why I leaned in to kiss Peeta on the cheek in the first place. It was such a great day, all because Peeta was generous enough to invite everyone in Arrow’s class to his birthday party. The children had so much fun. I did, too. I don’t generally like parties, but seeing the children’s faces… It was everything.

Peeta stood there in the kitchen, the evening sunlight bathing his hair in gold. And I just did it - because I wanted to. But then he moved.

Our lips met.

And what did I do when I realized what happened? _Nothing_. I didn’t even try to move away from him. It was an accident, and I could have just moved away and laughed it off. Instead, I parted my lips ever so slightly and leaned my body into his. I couldn’t stop my body’s reaction, demanding _more_. I wanted to kiss him more deeply, to touch him. All of him.

I'm not even ashamed to admit that he excited me. I could feel the wetness gathering between my legs as his large, strong hands pulled me closer.

I’m in trouble. How am I going to face Peeta tomorrow? What is he going to say? What am _I_ going to say?

I’ve never shared a kiss with anyone but Gale before tonight. It wasn’t how I had imagined it would be. My cheeks flush even more as I think about the _things_ I’ve fantasized about before, in bed, late at night. I managed to stop touching myself while thinking of Peeta after he left for the Capitol. The shame was too overwhelming. After he left, the grief process I went through, actually the grief process I’m still going through, took up all the energy I had.

But now, I’m back to square one. Except it’s worse, because we have actually… kissed. Even though the kiss was nothing like in my dreams – shorter, softer – it was somehow even better.

Because it was real.

What am I doing here? Who is the person staring back at me from the mirror?

I go to bed, but I can’t sleep. I stare into the darkness, torn between arousal and shame. My fists close around the sheets in an effort not to do _that_ again. It’s as if my entire body vibrates, but I’ve already done enough tonight to be ashamed of. I don’t need one more thing. Instead, I recount every reason why wanting to be with Peeta Mellark is a terrible idea.

There are many reasons.

It doesn’t work.

I remember what it was like to wake up next to him. It wasn’t until then that I realized how starved I’ve been for human touch, for the feel of someone beside me in the darkness. For the feel of _Peeta_ beside me?

After what seems like an eternity, I hear footsteps coming upstairs. He doesn’t go to his bedroom. He opens the door to the room at the end of the hallway. A moment later, the door locks behind him.

 

* * *

 

I’m dead tired. It took me hours to fall asleep last night, and not 45 minutes after I did, Ivy made a fuss and I barely slept the rest of the night. Typical.

Peeta’s not at home. He must have slipped out of the house at some point during the night. He doesn’t return all day. He’s never gone the whole day without at least telling me that he’s going somewhere, and whether or not he’ll be back for dinner. I try not to worry, but I can’t help it. If something hasn't happened to him... then he must be avoiding me. Does that mean he regrets the kiss?

Do _I_ regret it?

Ivy picks up on my tension. She’s whiny and clingy. The rain is pouring down outside. I consider going over to Haymitch’s to see if Peeta is there, but I decide that I should respect his wishes if he really wants to avoid me. I do hope he’s inside somewhere, though. He could get sick if he’s outside all day in this weather. He doesn’t have any clothes that will keep him warm and dry; he’s not the outdoorsy type.

Only after it gets dark does Peeta finally come home. I’ve lit a fire, and I’m sitting in the armchair in the living room with my feet curled up under me. I’m trying to read a book, but I’m unable to focus. I’ve read the same page five times, but I still don’t know what it says. I’m exhausted. Still, I’m too worried about Peeta and what happened last night and what on earth this all _means_ to go find rest.

I hear his heavy steps in the hallway, and then he comes into the living room. He’s dripping wet – if he hasn’t been outside all day, he must’ve been for at least quite some time. He’s breathing heavily, as if he’s been running. He runs his hand nervously through his blond hair, which looks much darker now that it’s wet. He hesitates slightly in the doorway before walking towards me, and stops right in front of the armchair. His eyes don’t leave mine. Then he bends down, slowly, giving me time to tell him to stop.

I don’t.

I close my eyes just a split second before his lips meet mine. It’s different from the first time. This time, I saw it coming. We both did. This kiss is not an accident.

The kiss is soft at first, but then it changes. With a pounding heart, I tilt my head slightly, opening my mouth while I tentatively try to meet his tongue with mine. When it does, he seems startled at first. He freezes, and retreats from me for a few seconds. His eyes meet mine again, and his pupils are fully dilated, so large his blue eyes look almost black. He exhales shakily, and it’s as if his entire body relaxes. Then he kisses me again. This time, he allows my tongue to meet his. It’s not a passionate kiss. It's comforting. Exploratory.

Still, when we part, we're both breathing heavily. His eyes are closed, our foreheads touching as he still stands in front of the armchair, leaning down over me as he supports his weight on his arms. “What are we doing, Katniss?” he whispers, his voice hoarse.

“Kissing,” I whisper back. Saying the word out loud somehow feels more definite than it was to actually _kiss_. But I still say it.

He chuckles. I've made light of the situation, but it doesn't last. Peeta stiffens as he becomes serious. He opens his eyes and they look – apprehensive? “I have no idea what I’m doing here, Katniss. Absolutely no idea.”

This confuses me. Over the years, I’ve seen him on the news many times, with all those Capitol women. Surely he must know what he’s doing? It occurs to me that I don’t quite know what he means, what exactly he’s talking about, but I do know it must go beyond kissing technique.

He must see my frown, because he opens his mouth as if to say something, but I beat him to it. “I don’t know what I’m doing, either.” My voice is shaky. I’m not talking about kissing, either. “You don’t know… You don’t know the effect you have.”

“So I have… I have an effect on you?” He sounds hopeful.

My deep blush must be answer enough. He moves away and sits down on the couch, directly facing me. I’m grateful. I think we both need some space. He stares at me, his right hand runs nervously over his jeans-clad thigh. Then he smiles shyly. “Well, you have an effect on me, too.” He takes a deep breath. “I thought I was obvious. Too obvious. I was ashamed that I…” His voice trails off, but then it’s as if he forces himself to continue. His voice is rushed as he does. “I didn’t know what you wanted, and with everything you’ve been through, and the children... and the Capitol and everything that I…” He stops himself abruptly, biting his lip.

He reaches out his hand, hesitatingly, and I understand what he wants. I lean forward and take it, feeling how much colder his still damp skin is compared to mine. I close both my hands around his, trying to warm it. He doesn’t look at my face, instead his eyes are focused on our hands. “I hope you know that it’s not just…” Peeta is usually so good with words, but they seem to have left him now. “I mean, I’m not like _them_.  I could never…” I furrow my brow, not understanding. He blushes, and looks up at me. He looks terrified for a second, as if he’s let something slip that he hadn’t intended.

“You could never what?” I whisper.

“I could never… use you.” I can barely hear his words. I feel as if I’m only understanding half of this conversation. But I do understand this - it is unspoken, but I somehow know it to be the truth. It’s not only about me wanting a warm body in my bed. Or him wanting one in his. What we are attempting to talk about now, in fact what we have probably tip-toed around for quite some time, is something much more than that. That's probably what scares me the most. If this had been only about the needs of my body, I think it would’ve been easier to handle, to justify to myself. 

But _this_? It’s much scarier, because it runs deeper.

There is something that he needs to know. “I think that… whatever is happening between us… this… kissing…” I curse myself for being so bad at this. I’m terrible at expressing my feelings in words. “It’s happening too fast. I can’t… It’s so fast.” It’s a contradiction, because in fact, it’s been anything but fast. We’ve been living in the same house for several months. But the circumstances still make it feel like we’re moving ahead at a pace that I can’t quite keep up with. Where is this going, exactly? I hope that my pleading eyes convey what my words can’t. How lonely I’ve been. How hard it is for me to move on after Gale’s death. The guilt I feel for even considering being with anyone else. That I’m scared of the way he makes me feel, the way he makes me long for him.

What I hope Peeta doesn't catch is the shame I feel for wanting him.

What would Gale think? 

He nods. “Yes, it’s… too fast.” I can’t tell if he actually agrees, or if he’s only saying it because he doesn’t feel as though he has any other choice.

“It’s not as if I have that much experience in this,” I blurt out. I’m not really talking about the physical intimacy that my body is craving and that I am quite sure he wants, too, because that I do know. I've got two children, after all. I knew what I was doing... with Gale, anyway. What if it’s completely different with… someone else? Oh no, I don’t need to worry about that, too.

“Gale was… the only one. And I've been with him since I was 16.” I’m blushing furiously now. I curse myself for not being able to express myself. How do I tell him that although I’m a woman of 31, right now I feel like I’m 16 again, awkward and unsure of how to proceed?

“Well, when you…” He clears his throat nervously. “When you think about what it was like, to be young and…” His voice trails off. He’s unable to meet my eyes. “That’s what it feels like for me. I told you I have no idea what I’m doing here.”

There he goes again. “I don’t understand what you mean,” I say. “I mean, I’ve seen you on TV. In the Capitol. With… women. I always thought that…”

His face seems to have closed up now. “…That I’ve been around?” There’s that nervous twitch in his jaw again.

“That’s not what I meant.”

He sighs. “I know what it looked like, Katniss. And I can’t… I can’t tell you, because you wouldn’t understand. Is it enough for you if I tell you that it’s not what it looked like?”

I nod slowly. It’s not enough, not really. But Haymitch told me not to ask Peeta about the Capitol, so I don’t. All I can do is hope that sooner or later, he will tell me the truth.

 

* * *

 

We’re supposed to go slow. It’s what I asked for, and Peeta agreed. I know it’s the right thing to do, but how exactly does it work? It’s not the same as when I was 16, living in my mother’s house. Gale and I didn’t have much time alone together, so we always had to sneak around. The circumstances automatically made us go slow. But then when we _were_ together, we were rushed because we had so little privacy.

Peeta and I, however, live in the same house. We have all the time alone together in the world.

At breakfast, I notice that he sends me shy glances that I think he tries to hide. When I catch him looking and our eyes meet, he smiles brilliantly and it takes my breath away for a second.

Then I notice the odd way Arrow looks at me, at us. I cough as I choke on my orange juice, blushing. Dammit. This is clearly inappropriate. _Get a grip, Katniss_.

I drown my insecurities in work after following Arrow to school. Peeta goes for a walk, muttering something about the Hob on his way out. Once he has left, I look at my own reflection in the bathroom mirror. My eyes somehow look bigger than normal, blacker. My hair isn’t in its usual braid, and I haven’t admitted even to myself why it isn’t. My lips still feel swollen from last night – I’m sure it’s just my imagination, but I can’t get the thought out of my head. I know slow is a good idea. It’s the sensible, right thing to do. But my body doesn’t quite seem to agree with me.

At night, we play poker with Haymitch. I’m so distracted by the way Peeta's fingers close around his cards that I actually _lose_. I scowl as I look at Haymitch’s chips. They should be mine. Damn, this is Peeta’s fault. Haymitch’s eyes twinkle as he looks at me, then at Peeta, who seems to have accepted that he always loses, and then back to me.

“You seem pretty distracted tonight, Katniss,” Haymitch says.

“I’m just tired, that’s all. It’s been a long day.” I say, hoping that I don’t blush deeply. But listening to Haymitch’s laughter, I’m pretty sure that I am.

“I bet you’re tired, alright,” Haymitch laughs. Which could’ve been a normal thing to say. He knows I have a baby, so I have a perfectly legitimate reason to be tired. But I know that’s not what he means.

“Haymitch!” Peeta scolds him.

Haymitch lifts his bottle in a silent toast. “I know when I’m not wanted. Have fun, you two kids. Goodnight.”

The older victor is still laughing when he leaves the house. I’m mortified, and I think Peeta is, too.

It’s not just mortification, though. Haymitch’s not so subtle remarks are also a reminder to me that people are noticing – and that it could be _real_. I start putting the chips back in the box, but my hands are trembling and Peeta notices. He stills the movements of my hands with his. “Katniss?” He looks worried.

“Why do people assume all these things about us?” I’m both embarrassed and angry now.

“Well, most people are just petty with dirty minds, and they gossip too much. But Haymitch… It’s because he cares. I know he has a strange way of showing it, but it’s true.”

His thumbs gently massage the back of my hands. A shiver goes through me, and Peeta instantly lets go of them. I think he must have misunderstood just why I shivered. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t be.” Our eyes meet across the table. “We spend more time saying we’re sorry than we should have to.”

 

* * *

 

Peeta’s hand brushes the small of my back as we pass in the kitchen the next morning. He kisses me – not on the lips, but he brushes the corner of my mouth. He pulls away with a smile.

He smiles more now.

I run my finger down his spine, through his shirt, and revel in the shudder that goes through his body. His eyes are wide as he looks at me. Peeta has the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen. It’s a miracle they don’t tangle. They are a light golden color, and I can’t stop staring at them.

 

* * *

 

 

A week passes, then two. We’re still working on slow. It feels right, but it’s also difficult. Sometimes it feels as if my body is on fire. All I want is for him to hold me, make me his. But that step... I’m not yet ready to take it. At least my head isn’t, but my body certainly is. I no longer feel ashamed that I moan his name into my pillow as I come. 

It’s exhausting, though, to always be so _aware_ of Peeta when he is in the room. Sometimes it’s actually a relief when he goes out for a walk, or when I walk Arrow to school. I get a brief break, during which I can breathe more freely.

I’m not sure when to take the next step. Or how. It’s not just the physical part, either, it’s more than that. There are so many things we have never talked about. There is Gale, of course. My family. His. The social divide between us.

There is also the Capitol. I know the house is bugged, and I know that they have some kind of hold on him, but I don’t know why or how. I also know the 89th Hunger Games are coming up soon. Peeta will leave after the reaping, and he will be away most of the summer. I remember what it was like when he left in early spring. How I wasn’t able to hold on anymore. How am I going to react when he’s away for even longer? I’m stronger now, I think. What happened was probably necessary, but remembering those dark weeks forces me to acknowledge that I am my mother’s daughter.

Then there are the things that Peeta let slip by accident. His talk of “them”. What does it all mean? Whoever “they” are, he’s terrified of becoming like them. I don’t understand.

 

* * *

 

Peeta’s gone to the Hob to buy Haymitch some more white liquor. It’s raining, but Haymitch’s supply is running low and Peeta doesn’t want to risk his mentor having withdrawal symptoms. The hallucinations are the worst. Peeta says the nightmares are bad enough, he doesn’t want Haymitch to be plagued by hallucinations when he’s awake, too. I want to ask if all the victors have nightmares, but when I think about the scenes from all the Hunger Games I’ve been forced to watch – how could they not? So I don’t ask.

I’m restless, I don’t know why. It’s stupid, because I need this break from my constant high level of _noticing_ him. But now that he’s not here, all I want is for him to come back. I can’t sit still. I pace the house, trying to find things to do, but the house is spotless. I suppose I’ve put a lot of excess sexual energy and frustration into cleaning lately.

Ivy is taking a nap when Peeta finally returns. I meet him in the hallway. He sets a brown paper bag, which has almost disintegrated from the rain, down on the floor as he takes his shoes off.

“Hi,” I begin.

“Hi,” he answers.

“You’re back.” I can’t keep my eyes off him.

“Yes.” He looks confused. I’ve done too much thinking these last few weeks. Now, I don’t think – I act. Without hesitation, I close the distance between us, and his lips are cold and damp from the rain. He doesn’t hesitate, and his body is hard and firm against mine. One hand is at the base of my neck, pressing me closer, the other plays lightly with the end of my braid.

It’s scary. It’s scary and exhilarating and I can’t stop. I don’t _want_ to stop. We end up on the couch – lying side by side, kissing, shyly touching, but not too intimately. There are still boundaries. But I feel his body against mine through the layers of our clothes, just as I’m sure he feels mine. He’s warm and solid and his presence makes me feel safe.

It also makes me burn.

“Is this our new slow?” Peeta asks as our lips part briefly. His voice is slightly husky. My back is pressed against the cushions of the couch. The fingertips of his right hand are exploring my collarbone, and I have to stifle a moan.

“I’m not sure. Do you think it should be?”

His fingertips are replaced by his lips, and I arch against him. I had no idea that spot was so sensitive. He looks up at me, his eyes cautious. “If you think it’s okay.”

“I asked you what _you_ think.”

His eyes are a curious mix of passion and confusion and something I can’t quite identify. All I know is that it’s something darker. Fear? Apprehension? Instead of answering me, he kisses me again. And again.

We reluctantly break apart when Ivy wakes up. She’s slept longer than she usually does, and even though it gave us more time together on the couch, for which I’m grateful, the downside is that she should have a snack, and it’s time to go pick up Arrow from school.

“I can take her,” Peeta says. “You go.”

I nod. He kisses me goodbye, and this time it’s not only on the corner of my mouth. As I leave the house, I know for a fact that my lips are swollen. My heart is beating wildly in my chest.

 

* * *

 

Arrow and I are met in the doorway by Peeta, who has Ivy on his hip. He looks flushed and uneasy.

“Katniss, I… uh…”

Arrow kicks off his rain boots and runs ahead of me into the living room, no doubt ready to play with his car and his train. He’d take them to school if I allowed it. I follow him, laughing as I run. On the way home, I promised him that we’d play together for a while before I make dinner. I hear Arrow’s surprised gasp just a split second before I see why Peeta behaved so strangely.

There are two live A-list celebrities in our living room. I can’t believe my own eyes. I’m frozen in place as I stare at the curious sight in front of me.

I’ve only seen him on TV and on the front paper of glossy magazines, but there is no way I wouldn’t recognize him immediately, even in the unlikely surroundings of Peeta’s living room. Finnick Odair, victor and Capitol playboy. The woman standing next to him is almost as high up on the list of Capitol celebrities as Finnick is – Cashmere Graph, another high-profile victor. She’s widely regarded as one of the most beautiful and desirable women in all of Panem.

I now see with my own eyes why they both get so much media attention. The two career victors are absolutely _stunning_. In fact, they look so perfect it almost hurts. I suddenly feel very self-conscious, with my wet hair and washed-out clothes. My eyes dart back and forth between them as I bite my lip nervously.

“You must be Katniss!” _Finnick Odair_ knows who I am! “It’s so nice to finally meet you.” Finally? I don’t understand. He greets me with a big and very white smile and he shakes my hand. He holds it for just a second too long. The skin of his hand is soft and so warm, but his handshake is firm. I’m even more surprised when, after finally releasing my hand, he gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. I’m so stunned I don’t even push him away, as I normally would if a stranger tried to hug me. I hate myself for blushing furiously. Over Finnick’s shoulder, I see Peeta rolling his eyes, and Cashmere is poorly hiding a smirk. To hide my confusion, I reach out my arms for Ivy after Finnick releases me. Peeta gives her to me, and she immediately takes my braid in her little hand and gives it a hard tug. The pain makes it easier to escape the spell of Finnick’s sea green eyes.

I’m not sure where to look – at Finnick’s face, which is so handsome it looks almost unreal, at his shirt that’s buttoned down just one button too much, revealing the tanned skin on his chest, at Peeta’s blush, or… so I settle on shaking the female victor’s hand instead. “I’m Katniss Hawthorne,” I say, hating myself when I hear how insecure my voice sounds.

“Cashmere Graph,” she says. She’s not even trying to hide that she’s measuring me up and down, but I can’t tell from her expression what her verdict on me is. Her hair is perfect, despite the rain, and I know she must’ve walked to get here, since we don’t have any cars in 12. I wonder how she pulled that off. Her skin is perfect. Her features are perfect. Her teeth, body, and clothes are all perfect. Damn her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Finnick and I were so curious we simply _had_ to visit Peeta.”

How is it possible to look _that_ perfect?

I’m not quite sure why Cashmere and Finnick would be so “curious”, but I have a feeling I’m not going to like the answer if I ask, so I don’t. I feel an overwhelming need to get out of this room, away from these two. Away from Finnick’s twinkling eyes and disturbingly intense sensuality, and Cashmere’s perfection.

“Too bad you never bothered to let me know you were coming,” Peeta says. “Then we could’ve prepared for your arrival.”

Cashmere rolls her eyes. “I told Haymitch. It’s not my fault he forgot to tell you.”

Peeta chuckles. “I’m not entirely convinced Haymitch _forgot_ to tell me, I think he may have neglected to tell me on purpose. Including the fact that you’ll be staying here.”

I pale. Oh, no.

“Well, I’m certainly not living in the hole Haymitch calls his house. I much prefer the domestic bliss of your home.” I don’t know how to interpret the look in Cashmere’s eyes. Is she genuine, mocking, or sad?  “Coming here to find Peeta Mellark with a baby in his arms… who would’ve thought? That sight alone was worth the price of the train ticket.” Now I’m pretty sure she’s mocking me. Or him. Or both of us. I don’t know why I’m blushing, but I can’t help but notice that Peeta is, too. Only a few hours ago we were – well, I suppose the only way to describe it is that we were making out on the couch like two teenagers. Now we – no, _Peeta_ – suddenly has houseguests, and everything has changed.

“I’m going to make up the guest bedrooms,” I murmur. “Arrow, please come help me.” I want to get him away from these two as well. I really wonder how long they intend to stay.

 

* * *

 

Peeta invites Haymitch over for a late dinner, after the children are in bed. Until then, I had hoped I could get some time alone in the kitchen, but Peeta insists on cooking. I’m not really surprised; he’s a much better cook than I am, and besides, he really enjoys it. The children are in the kitchen with us, and somehow Cashmere and Finnick end up there, too. There is no way for me to get away from the two victors. I have absolutely no idea how to deal with them.

To my great surprise, the children warm up to our guests very quickly. Finnick and Arrow play with the car Peeta bought him in the Capitol, as well as some ropes, and it seems like they are having a lot of fun. Ivy has Cashmere wrapped around her little finger already. Cashmere, to my great surprise, crawls after my baby on the kitchen floor, despite wearing that fancy dress, and Ivy laughs hysterically as the victor tickles her. For reasons I don’t really want to get into, not even to myself, I don’t want this woman around my daughter. But she does seem to be very good with Ivy, and it is easier to make dinner without being distracted by a baby who is now pretty much everywhere but where I want her to be. I still keep a watchful eye on the two of them, though.

Is it longing I see in Cashmere’s eyes as she hands Ivy a toy car? Then she notices my staring, and flashes me a smile, just like I’ve seen her smile on TV many times before. The smile is out of place here, in this house, and I’m pretty sure it must be fake. And whatever it was I saw in her eyes - it’s gone now.  

I let Peeta take the lead, and simply do the tasks he gives me. We’re having one of Haymitch’s geese for dinner. The less geese that man has the better, so I definitely approve of the choice of main course. Peeta’s chosen a slow-cooking recipe. It takes several hours to finish, but he claims it’s worth it. Haymitch comes over, too. Thankfully he doesn’t make any remarks about Peeta and me, but I don’t miss the looks he sends Cashmere and me.

When it’s time to put the children to bed, I leave the four victors in the kitchen to do the rest. I give the children a bath – it saves so much time now that they are both old enough to bathe together. They love it, too – Arrow takes such good care of his little sister. He’s very gentle when they’re both in the tub together, even when she’s tugging at his hair or splashing water in his face. It’s strange how easy it is to forget that only a few months ago, having warm water in the tap was a luxury I had never experienced. Arrow would only get one bath a week, on Saturday night. We’d all bathe in the same water. First Arrow, then me. Gale would always be the last to bathe, because he was so full of coal dust from the mines, the water was almost black after he was done. As Arrow puts on his pajamas in his room, which takes him quite a while, I knock Ivy out by feeding her. She’s asleep by the time I put her into her crib.

I read Arrow a book. This is our favorite time of the day. After I’ve finished the book, we talk for a few minutes, in a hushed voice because Ivy is asleep in the next room. He usually tells me about his day, or we talk about his dad, or what he’s going to do at school tomorrow. But tonight, he wants to talk about our guests.

“Finnick is really funny, Mama. And he knows so many knots! He taught me some, too. He said I was very good at it.”

“I’m sure you are,” I whisper back. “You have to show me tomorrow.”

“I have to do it when Ivy’s napping, because she’d only take the rope and make a mess of everything,” he complains. It’s not always easy being the oldest. I remember what that was like.

“I suppose you’re right,” I agree, trying to keep the laughter out of my voice.

“And Cashmere, she’s so pretty. Have you ever seen anyone that pretty before, Mama?”

My good mood instantly turns to sour. “She is pretty,” I reluctantly agree.

“You’re the prettiest mama in the whole world though,” he says, and that makes me feel a little bit better, even though I know I can’t compete with Cashmere.

“Good night. I love you,” I whisper, slipping out of his narrow bed.

“Good night, Mama,” he answers. I kiss his hair lightly. He smells sweet, like soap.

I close the door carefully behind me, making sure I don’t wake up Ivy. I start walking down the corridor to go downstairs when I pass the full-length mirror. I stop, looking critically at myself, which I rarely do. I’m wearing a pair of worn jeans that are clean, but hardly classy, as well as a tank top that could definitely be more flattering. A few strands of hair have escaped from my braid.

I'm supposed to sit across from Cashmere all night.

I’ve noticed the way she looks at Peeta. There is almost something _possessive_ about it. What’s worse, they look relaxed together, in fact all four of them do. It’s clear they know each other very well. They laugh about things that I don’t understand. Their references are different from mine. They know people and things that I, the unsophisticated miner’s wife who has never been outside District 12 except to hunt, don’t understand.

Peeta also looks nervous when I interact with Cashmere – which I only do when it’s absolutely necessary, but still. I don’t like it.

Am I even pretty? My body has filled out some after months of regular meals, but it’s nothing compared with Cashmere’s luscious curves.

Fuck this.

I quietly sneak into my room, hoping I won’t wake up Ivy, and open the door to my closet. I don’t dare switch on the light, but there is still enough light to see. My choices are very limited. I have three dresses that qualify as “nice.” There is a light pink dress from my mother’s merchant days. It’s 30 years old, and even though the colors look flattering on me, it’s hardly fashionable. Then there’s the blue dress I wore to my four last reapings, also from my mother’s merchant days. But it’s a bit tight over my chest. Now that I think about it, the pink one probably fits funny now, too.

And then there’s the orange dress Peeta bought for me in the Capitol. I take it out from the closet and look at it. It’s actually far beyond “nice” - it looks far too classy for someone like me. When he gave it to me, I didn’t think I’d ever find an occasion here in 12 where wearing this dress would be appropriate. I don’t even know if it fits.

Does it?

I go into the bathroom, quickly shed my jeans and tank top, and put on the dress. Somehow, it’s a perfect fit. I wonder if it was just pure luck on Peeta’s part, or if he actually knows my dress size. I look at myself in the bathroom mirror. The dress gives a very subtle impression of flames, as if the fabric sort of… flickers.

I can’t explain to myself why I unbraid my hair and allow it to flow freely over my shoulders, either. I shake my head and run my fingers through my hair. The woman who meets my eyes in the mirror doesn’t even look like me. I don’t look like a tired mother of two.

I look like I’m on fire.

When I go downstairs, though, I instantly feel like an idiot and regret the whole thing. What was I thinking? But it’s too late now.

Haymitch is sitting at the kitchen table together with Cashmere, who is drinking a glass of red wine. She must have changed without me noticing that she’d gone upstairs. She’s wearing what I suspect is just a rather casual Capitol dress – it doesn’t look even half as outrageous as the things I’ve seen the people in the Capitol wear – but it still looks fabulous by 12 standards. The worst thing is that she looks so _comfortable_ in it, with a sort of effortless elegance.

I, on the other hand, feel like I don’t belong in this dress at all. This isn’t really me.

Peeta’s laughing at something Cashmere just said, and I have to fight the urge to steal his attention away from her.  He’s standing with his back towards me, so he doesn’t see me enter the room, but Finnick does, and his eyes widen momentarily. To my astonishment, he gives me another kiss on the cheek. “You look fantastic, Katniss,” he says, and he actually sounds sincere. I blush furiously.

Cashmere raises an eyebrow. “Impressive, Katniss,” she says. “Cinna?” I furrow my brow, not understanding.

Peeta turns around and he freezes when he sees me. He’s drinking from a glass of water, and he seems to choke upon seeing me, coughing violently. When he regains control over his voice, his face crimson red, he says, “Um, yes… Cinna.” He avoids direct eye contact with me, I notice. He turns around again. “Katniss, do you know where we keep the napkins?”

“In the third drawer from the top,” I tell him. I’m annoyed that it doesn’t seem like he’s noticing me at all.

I accept a glass of red wine from Finnick, who’s practically undressing me with his gaze. Or is he? I don’t know how to interpret his signals at all. Who am I kidding? I’ve never been able to interpret the signals that men send out. Gale always found that hilarious.

I look down at the glass. I’ve never tasted wine before. It smells odd, and I’m not entirely sure if I like it. I can’t drink much, as I suspect Ivy will want to be fed in a couple of hours. I take a sip, and try not to grimace as I feel the bitter taste on my tongue. It’s probably a good thing I can use breastfeeding as an excuse not to drink more than a few sips, anyway.

Peeta cuts up the goose, and I serve the gravy and the vegetables. He almost bumps into me as we move around each other, and he looks flushed and apologizes profusely.

Cashmere smiles, her grin devilish. “You could cut the sexual tension in this room with a knife.”

“Shut up, Cashmere,” Peeta hisses.

“And I’m not talking about Finnick.”

“One more word from you, and you’re staying at Haymitch’s tonight,” Peeta threatens.

“Well, Haymitch _is_ kind of hot, don’t you think?” She looks over at Finnick, who nods.

“I’d do him,” he says.

“Of course you would,” Cashmere snorts. Haymitch guffaws, but I’m rendered speechless. To hide my confusion, I dig up some candles from a drawer and light them.

Cinna… the name is familiar, but I can’t really place it. “Who is Cinna?” I ask.

“He’s the District 1 stylist,” Cashmere says. “I’d recognize one of his dresses anywhere.”

“You were lucky to get him,” Finnick says. He nods over at Peeta. “Cinna used to be 12’s stylist. But he was too good for a district like 12, so he was promoted to 1”. Finnick doesn’t have to say anything else. I remember it now, from years ago. Cinna’s talent was too great to be wasted on a poor mining district.

“He was my stylist back when I was in the Hunger Games,” Peeta explains. Now that we’re sitting around the table together, it seems like he’s trying to keep himself from staring at me. The stolen glances… I feel my pulse increasing. “I wanted to get you something from the Capitol, and I didn’t know what to give you, so I asked Cinna. He asked me some questions about you, and then he suggested this dress.”

“Questions? What kind of questions?”

“About your… dress size at first. Your hair color, things like that. But then he was more interested in what you were like, your personality.” He pauses slightly. “He said it sounded like you were a woman on fire. So he insisted on this one.”

I blush. Woman on fire… I wonder what kind of fire Cinna was talking about. 

“Well, it’s perfect on you, Katniss,” Finnick says with a smile. “So Peeta _really_ must’ve paid attention to your dress size.”

Peeta chokes on his water again. He’s the only one who’s not drinking alcohol, although I’ve barely touched my glass of wine. I don’t know how to interpret the look on Cashmere’s face.

“So, what do you think of 12 so far?” Haymitch says when we’re halfway through the goose. 

Wait. They’ve never been to 12 before? I’m starting to suspect that this visit is even more special than I’d originally thought. Cashmere and Finnick must have known Peeta for over a decade.

“Well, we haven’t seen much yet,” Finnick says. “So far it certainly beats the impression I got during the Victory Tour, though.”

“In what way?” I ask him.

“Well, the weather’s nicer, the children are well fed, and the women are more beautiful…” His eyes twinkle at me, his voice is just a little bit too low. My eyes dart over to Peeta.

Peeta is staring at his plate, and Haymitch is doubled over in laughter. “Damn straight they are, Finnick,” he manages to say in between fits of laughter.

I wonder when they are going to leave. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Katniss and Cashmere in the same house? Poor Peeta...
> 
> Have you read Lbug84's 7 Steps yet? If you haven't, check it out! She's going to update very, very soon too.


	12. Caught in the middle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Lbug84 for betaing and holding my hand, and to Chelzie for prereading! This story would suck without you two. 
> 
> I also think that the lovely anon who made the banner deserves to be thanked (again) - I still love it! You are so talented.

**Peeta’s POV**

Cashmere and Finnick.

They are literally the last people I ever thought I would see in 12, except for perhaps President Snow. But here they are, at my door. I stare at them, perplexed. “What are you two doing here?” is all I can say, and Cashmere flashes me her Capitol smile. I’ve seen it too many times to be fooled by it.

“Surprised, are you?” She looks at Ivy, still situated on my hip. Ivy studies the blond woman in front of her. I know that look. Ivy’s trying to figure out whether she likes this new person or not.  “We decided it was time to pay the outlying districts a little visit.” When has Cashmere, of all people, ever been interested in the outlying districts? Not to mention Finnick.

Cashmere leans in to give me a kiss on the cheek, and Ivy takes the opportunity to grab a hold of Cashmere’s necklace. It’s white gold with an assortment of gems or glass or… something like that. Ivy holds the necklace in her chubby little hands, and won’t let go of it. “You’re a precious little thing, aren’t you?” I’m surprised to see the change in Cashmere’s smile. Her voice is low and soft. She has gone from Capitol to someone else entirely in a matter of seconds. I’ve known Cashmere for many years, but I’ve never seen her like this before. She reaches behind her neck and unclasps the necklace. She lets Ivy remove it from her neck.

“Um, I’m not sure if that's safe,” I tell Cashmere, carefully prying Ivy’s little fists open to take the necklace back from her. Katniss will kill me if she comes home and finds Ivy playing with something she could potentially choke on. Cashmere looks disappointed.

Odd.

I hand the necklace back to her while trying to comfort Ivy, who of course is now crying because I took something shiny from her. “Perhaps it’s better if you put it in your pocket so she can’t see it?” I suggest.

“Peeta, you’ve become quite the family guy,” Finnick says. He gives Ivy his best Finnick Odair, charmer extraordinaire smile, and to my amazement, he holds her attention. Ivy stops crying, and she hides her face against my chest as she smiles shyly back at him.

Cashmere leaves her no doubt very expensive suitcase in the hall and walks into the living room. She looks around curiously. “So they built the same houses in the Victors’ Village in 12, too,” she says. “Interesting. Well, it’s perfect, I guess. Makes us feel right at home.”

I blink, confused. “Haymitch didn’t tell you we were coming?” she asks. I shake my head. Cashmere raises an eyebrow. “…Or that we’re staying at your place?”

Fuck. Thank you very much, Haymitch, for neglecting to tell me that minor detail. I suppose the stunned look on my face is answer enough.

Cashmere laughs. “Clearly he didn’t. Well, Finn and I decided to go on a little holiday, and where else could we go but 12?”

They could go pretty much anywhere except the smallest, dirtiest and poorest district in Panem.

“Surely you have as many spare bedrooms in your fancy Capitol-built house as Finnick and I have in ours.”

Finnick has already settled down on the couch, making himself right at home. One of Arrow’s books is on the table. Finnick opens it and reads the first page. It’s a very old one about a striped fish whose son is kidnapped and held prisoner, and so he goes looking for him.  I’ve read it to Arrow several times. It’s a cute story, even though it’s unrealistic. I've never seen fish that look like that before, and even Finnick, who has had far more exposure to ocean fauna than I have, shakes his head in disbelief. "This is ridiculous," he comments.  Then he looks up at me with a devilish grin. “I like 12 already.” He turns to the next page. “Of course, we haven’t seen much yet. The train station, the main street. An interesting man named Cray came to meet us at the station. I guess the rumors of our arrival travel fast. He said he was the Head Peacekeeper in 12?” Finnick’s sea green eyes have taken on a more stormy color. I’ve seen that look before. Finnick is good at seeing right through people. “Keep that man close, Peeta.” I know. Cray has been ogling Katniss for so long.

“So where’s your housekeeper?” Cashmere asks casually.

I clear my throat nervously. Katniss and Cashmere in the same house? I’m not sure if I’m ready for that. What kind of expectations does Cashmere have? Why is she really here? Cashmere has been acting strangely… Flashing me her Capitol smile, contacting Haymitch about coming here instead of contacting me directly… I have a feeling that Cashmere was the one who suggested to Finnick that they go to 12, not the other way around.

“She’s picking up Arrow from school.” I know Katniss will be back any minute. I don’t have much time, so I nervously blurt out: “I need you two to not tell Katniss anything about our… business adventures in the Capitol.”

Cashmere cocks her head. “You still haven’t told her?”

I shake my head. “She doesn’t know. _No one_ knows, except for Haymitch. And I want to keep it that way. Okay?”

Cashmere nods. “Sure, Peeta. We won’t tell.” She looks serious now. I wonder if she’s hiding her “job” in the Capitol from anyone in her home district, too? Her family? A lover, perhaps? Every time I ask her about her life in 1, she only tells me about her brother. But... could there be someone else?

I hear steps in the gravel outside the house, and I rush to the door to try to warn Katniss about our guests. But I don’t have time to tell her before she runs after Arrow into the living room, laughing. With a sinking heart I follow her into the living room, just in time to see that she’s unable to hide her shock when she sees the guests. Her eyes dart from Cashmere, to Finnick... then back to Cashmere.

This could be interesting.

 

* * *

 

It’s very different to see Cashmere and Finnick on my home turf. I can spend time with them without the pressure of having to mentor or entertain clients, which is obviously a plus. It’s also stressful – mostly because I’m terrified of what they might say to Katniss.

The timing is bad, too. The last thing Katniss and I need right now is guests. The recent turn our relationship has taken doesn't need any additional outside influence.

On the other hand, we did agree to go slow, and what we did on the couch earlier today… wasn’t. Was I imagining things when I thought there was something in her eyes as she left to pick up Arrow? A promise of something more? 

The truth is that I don’t know. I told her that I don’t know what I’m doing here, but I don’t think she realizes just how lost I am. I know how things work in the Capitol, but I have no idea how something like this works in 12. Is this a romantic relationship? A companionship? I don’t know the rules of this game. I’m not sure if I’m interpreting her signals correctly. Perhaps having someone around will actually be good for us. Perhaps we need someone here to keep us on the slow track that we both agreed was a good idea.

I know Cashmere must be here because of Katniss, but I’m not quite sure what she wants. I decide to play it by ear and hope for the best. I’ll have to find an opportunity to talk to her alone as soon as I can.

Even though it’s unexpected, and even though it’s a delicate situation, it’s still kind of nice to have Cashmere and Finnick here. I don’t have to pretend; they know all of my weaknesses and accept me for who I am.  I do have to weigh my words carefully because of Katniss’ presence, of course, but I trust them to keep their word about not telling her anything unsavory. Haymitch comes over, and he’s always a great ice breaker - at least when he’s not overly drunk, and he’s not today. It doesn’t take long until we’re all laughing and telling stories – everyone, that is, except Katniss. She’s quiet, focused on helping me with dinner. I look at her out of the corner of my eye, and there’s a constant scowl on her face. I don’t miss the way she looks daggers at my guests as well, even though she tries to hide it.

Well, I think it’s mostly Cashmere.

When it’s bedtime, Katniss goes upstairs to give the children a bath and put them to bed. I hear the children laughing and splashing water from upstairs.

Cashmere hears it, too. “Very domestic,” she says, looking up towards the stairs.

I clear my throat. “Well… yes.”

“So… it’s pretty family-like.”

I furrow my brow. Haymitch is studying me intently, but doesn’t say anything. “I wouldn’t… wouldn’t really know.”

“What it’s like in a family? You grew up in one, didn’t you?”

I shrug. “My parents worked very hard, running the bakery – six, seven days a week. My brothers and I helped. We were rarely together, all five of us, in the same room, except for dinner. Someone was almost always working. And my mother was…” I cut myself off. “Never mind.”

I can’t read Cashmere’s expression. “She wasn’t like Katniss?” she asks.

“No, she wasn’t.” Still isn't.

Only after I’ve confirmed what she asked, do I realize what it means. I’ve told Cashmere about my mother before, late at night, when I’ve been drinking. Cashmere has already seen, in the short time she has been here, that Katniss is nothing like the stories I vaguely remember telling her of my mother. Even though Katniss has been scowling most of the time since they came, it’s impossible to miss the bond between her and her children. 

Cashmere has a weird look on her face. “I’ll go freshen up,” she says, and goes upstairs after I give her directions to her room. I really hope the two women won’t run into each other. Hopefully Katniss has her hands full with the children.

“Well, good luck with that little situation you’ve got on your hands here, son,” Haymitch says with a smirk after Cashmere is out of earshot.

I ignore his use of the word “son.” In fact, I choose to ignore his entire remark. I still haven’t quite forgiven him for not telling me that Finnick and Cashmere were coming. “It was her idea to come here, wasn’t it?” I ask Finnick.

His eyes twinkle, and he nods. “Of course.”

“And you thought this was a brilliant idea?”

“Truthfully – yes.”

“Why?” I hiss. 

“With the way you talk about Katniss… We needed to find out if she was worth it.”

"Worth it?"

"Worth the risk."

I roll my eyes. “I don’t need you to look after me.”

“It’s what we do, Peeta. We protect each other.” He’s serious now. Damn him. He’s right. I doubt I’d be alive today if it hadn’t been for the other victors – Finnick, Cashmere, and Haymitch in particular.

“What is Cashmere after? Really?” I ask.

Finnick sighs. “You know she loves you, right? Not like…” His voice trails off, and I know he’s thinking about Annie. I’ve seen it before – that distant look he has when he looks at the photo of her he keeps in his wallet, when he thinks no one is watching. It’s a sloppy move on his part, but the Capitol already knows all about Annie, so I guess there’s nothing left to hide. “Not the way a girlfriend would love you, or a wife - but she’s been by your side for years, as you have been for her. Now, the dynamics in your relationship are changing, all because of…” He points a finger up towards the ceiling. “You can’t blame Cashmere for wanting to check out if the person causing all these changes in _her_ life as well is worth it. That she’s good for you? Katniss could easily have been a gold digger.”

I know that he’s right. In the first five or six years or so after winning the Hunger Games, there were plenty of girls and women in 12 who were obviously interested in Peeta Mellark, the victor, and not Peeta Mellark, the man. There haven’t been any gold diggers in years now, though. “What if Cashmere decides that Katniss isn’t… ‘good’ for me?” I shudder to think about the things Cashmere could tell Katniss. Cashmere could cause a rift so great that things might never be the same between us again.

“Give Cashmere some credit, Peeta,” Haymitch says. “She’s here to protect you, not because she’s jealous.” He downs his glass of white liquor. “I think, anyway.”

That’s not very reassuring.

I feel the urge to take a swig from his bottle of white liquor, but force myself to drink some water instead. A few minutes later, Cashmere comes back, wearing a different dress. I wonder why women seem to feel the need to change their clothing for dinner. Is this something she has picked up in the Capitol, or is it a more universal thing? She seems to be in a good mood, though, and doesn’t mention anything about Katniss at all. As I add the finishing touches on the meal, I watch her from the corner of my eye. I do know that Cashmere loves me in her own way, albeit a dysfunctional, non-romantic, victor way. The same way I love her, only I haven’t actually called it love, because I’m not sure there is a word for what we are. Were. Well, truthfully we probably still are, and always will be. Just like nothing can erase the bond I have with Haymitch and Finnick.

I try to push thoughts of the complicated relationships I have with the two women who are currently under my roof away. It’s surprisingly easy when only one of them is in the room with me, especially when the three victors are entertaining me with stories from the Capitol. I’m laughing at Cashmere’s story about 1’s escort, who was stupid enough to get into a fight with the District 4 escort over a fish dinner, when I hear Finnick saying: “You look fantastic, Katniss.” I didn’t hear Katniss coming downstairs, but she moves like the huntress that she is – without a sound. It’s not the first time she’s taken me by surprise. I take a sip from my glass of water, mentally preparing myself to turn around and look at her. Why is it so hard to look at her? Is it more difficult now that Cashmere is here? I don’t know.

“Impressive,” Cashmere says. “Cinna?”

I finally turn around, and I choke on the water at the sight. I cough violently.

That dress. _That dress_.

Katniss looks absolutely stunning. The dress I got her from the Capitol fits her perfectly – it’s not just the size, but it’s all of it, all of _her_. It’s as if the dress was made for her. There’s something about the pure lines, about the way the fabric hugs her curves. She is still slender, as she was starving just a few months ago, but her hips… I take a deep breath. _Relax, Peeta. Don’t make a fool out of yourself here, in front of everyone._ I should turn around again, and quickly. I really need to adjust my pants.

But what’s most extraordinary about the dress is the fabric, which somehow makes it look like Katniss is on fire. I see now why Cinna said he had the perfect dress for her when I said that ‘fire’ was the one word I’d use to describe her, because the fabric seems to… flicker? Like flames. The color complements her own dark complexion, making her smooth olive skin glow. Her hair is down, her black curls flowing over her shoulders. Her big, gray eyes are defiant, but there’s a hint of nervousness in them as well. And her lips look swollen – like she was just kissed.

She _was_ just kissed. By me. Was it really just earlier today that we were kissing on the couch?

I suddenly realize that they’re all waiting for me to say something. How long have I been staring at her like an idiot? Make that staring like a horny idiot. I clear my throat. “Um, yes… Cinna.”

I need to change the subject. Quickly. I can’t think about her body in that dress for one more second or I’ll make a fool of myself. A considerable amount of blood has gone south already. Cashmere will be able to tell in an instant if this escalates any further. “Katniss, do you know where we keep the napkins?” Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

“In the third drawer from the top,” Katniss answers. Finnick pours her a glass of wine, and he cocks his head and smiles at her. She looks flushed, and I can’t say I blame her. When Finnick uses his charm on someone, it’s not easy to be on the receiving end. I know Finnick very well, though. Finnick loves Annie, and in his own way, he’s faithful to her. He never does anything with anyone unless he has to. I wonder what it is about Katniss that affects him, because clearly, there must be _something_. He’s showing her much more interest than I had expected. Katniss must have gotten to him somehow.

Cashmere smiles, and her grin is devilish. “You could cut the sexual tension in this room with a knife.”

“Shut up, Cashmere,” I hiss. I really don’t need this right now.

“And I’m not talking about Finnick.”

“One more word from you and you’re staying at Haymitch’s place,” I threaten her. It’s only been a few hours, and the hope I had of trying to keep the Capitol - with its prostitution and the nights spent in Cashmere’s bed - separate from whatever it is I’ve been doing with Katniss here in 12, gets slimmer with every passing minute.

“Well, Haymitch is kind of hot, don’t you think?” Cashmere looks over at Finnick, who nods.

“I’d do him,” he says.

“Of course you would,” she snorts. Haymitch guffaws.

 

* * *

 

Dinner is a curious affair. Cashmere and Katniss get off on the wrong foot immediately. Katniss doesn’t say much, and when she does answer a direct question, her replies are short and strained. She keeps her eyes focused on her plate, except for when she is forced to look at Cashmere or Finnick when they ask her about something, but she never looks at me. Perhaps because I don’t dare to talk to her.

But when she does look at Cashmere, she’s practically shooting daggers at her across the table.

Cashmere, on the other hand, laughs too much. She also _touches_ me with her perfectly manicured hands. It appears fleeting and seemingly coincidental, but I know it’s not. Nothing Cashmere ever does is a coincidence. It’s how she has survived for so long.

I suspect Cashmere of purposely trying to make Katniss jealous. I’m sure Cashmere could dress down if she wanted to. I’ve seen her hair mussed and more natural looking on more than one occasion, but tonight, it’s perfect. The same goes for her make-up. Why is she even wearing make-up? It shouldn’t be necessary for just a quiet dinner with good friends, should it? But of course, I’m a man. I don’t really understand these things. I don’t understand the rules of courting or relationships, and I don’t quite understand what is going on between Cashmere and Katniss right now. But I understand enough to know that I am ultimately the reason why Cashmere is putting on quite a show, and why Katniss, wearing _that dress_ , scowls at her from the other side of the table.

Haymitch mostly sits there with a smirk on his face as he observes the show. Finnick doesn’t make things any better. He’s not quite as obvious as Cashmere, but he does wink at Katniss several times, and he’s being overly gallant. After dinner, he offers Katniss sugar cubes for her tea, and I’ve never seen Katniss look more flustered.

I find it hard to focus on the conversation because I can’t stop thinking about how stunning she looks in that orange dress. And the hair… I have to shift slightly in my seat while I curse my weak body, and force myself not to look at her. Katniss probably doesn’t even know it herself. She doesn’t know how beautiful she is. The effect that she can have.

I need a cold shower.

 

* * *

 

After dinner, I show Cashmere and Finnick to their rooms.

“Nice set up you have here, Peeta,” Cashmere says with a smile I can’t quite interpret. She keeps her voice low because of the sleeping children.

I roll my eyes. “Cashmere…” I say in warning.

She shakes her head, more serious now. “I’ll behave. I promise. Good night.” And then she kisses my cheek and goes into her room, closing the door behind her.

Finnick has a weird look on his face as he observes my goodnight with Cashmere. “Well, that was certainly interesting,” he says after she’s closed the door behind her.

“What?” I snap. I’m exhausted after dinner, and I feel a headache coming on.

“When you spoke about Katniss earlier, in the Capitol… Well, we understood this housekeeper of yours had to be someone quite special.” He smiles again – a genuine smile this time. It’s something I don’t see from Finnick all that often, because he’s usually in character. In his Capitol character. It’s safer that way. “It turns out we were right. Very interesting… Very interesting indeed.” He winks at me.

Finnick retires, too. I stare at the closed door of his room, wondering just what he meant by “very interesting”. I shake my head. This is all very confusing. I consider going to bed myself, but instead I decide to go downstairs to help Katniss out with the rest of the dishes.

And who am I kidding? Dishes or no dishes, there’s no way I can stay away from her while she’s wearing _that dress_.

When I get back downstairs, Katniss looks pissed off. She’s slamming the doors of the cupboards as she puts the plates and glasses back where they belong. She never does that.

“Katniss,” I say with a low voice.

She turns around, and I’m not surprised to see that the fire in her eyes is back. “Peeta.”

I expect her to say something more than just my name, but she doesn’t. Instead, she turns away. We were so close earlier today. Now she’s clearly shutting me out.

I can’t let her.

I go to her, but she doesn’t look at me. “If you’ve got something to say, then say it. Yell at me if you want to, but don’t just turn away from me. _Please_.”

Her hands are shaking. She places the last wine glass back in the cupboard and turns towards me. “I don’t know how to behave around them.”

This surprises me. “You don’t have to do anything in particular. Just… be yourself. They’re only _people_ , Katniss. I know they can seem pretty intimidating at first, but I think you’ll be surprised by how nice Finnick and Cashmere are once you get to know them. They are just normal people.” Aside from the obvious fact that they are both so damaged by the Hunger Games and decades of prostitution, of course.

“I’m not good with… _people_ ,” she insists. She crosses her arms in front of her chest. She’s putting up that wall again. This isn’t what she’s really worried about, I know it isn’t. _Get to the point, Katniss._ She looks down at the floor, refusing to meet my eyes. “Earlier today, we were…” Her voice trails off.

“Kissing.” I complete her sentence. “We were kissing.” My mouth is dry. Is she going to say that she regrets it?

She nods, blushing deeply. “Yes. Kissing. And I thought that… Perhaps we…” Her voice trails off again. I tentatively reach out to touch her; perhaps it’s a bad idea, but I can’t help myself. I trace the line of her jaw. Her lips part as I do, and I stare at them, mesmerized. Then my hand travels from the back of her neck, touching her hair. I’ve never felt it down like this before, and I revel at the feeling of her silky hair against my skin. It’s dark and heavy and luscious.

I can’t believe she’s letting me do this.

“Is Cashmere your girlfriend?” she asks. Her voice is very low, I can barely hear her. I shake my head. “Ex-girlfriend?” I shake my head again. It’s the truth. ”I know you don’t owe me anything, Peeta. I know you don’t have to answer these questions.” She takes a deep breath. “Is she your lover, then?”

Now that’s a good question. I hesitate, and I know that in doing so, I have in effect answered her. Katniss seems to shrink away from me immediately. I can’t let her. My fingers are still tangled in her hair, so I hold her in place. She needs to hear this. “She was. She _was_ my lover, Katniss. Not anymore.”

“Why isn’t she your lover anymore?”

“You already know the answer to that question.”

She makes a small, strangled sound in the back of her throat. “Why did she come here?”

“Because she cares about me,” I answer her truthfully.

She opens her mouth to say something. I can tell she’s angry, but I don’t let her speak. Instead, I crush my lips to hers. Words can’t convince her, but perhaps actions can. Besides, I’m so worked up from the day. First from feeling her move against me on the couch. Tasting her lips, hearing the gasps she tried to stifle. And then I’ve seen her in this dress all night, on fire. And now… angry, jealous Katniss. Yes, she’s jealous. There is no doubt about it. The idea that she’s jealous because of _me_ is overwhelming.

It’s also turning me on.

She tries to push me away, half-heartedly, for a few seconds. Then she relaxes into me, and her hands sneak up around my neck. My own hands go lower, down from her hair to her slender waist. I press her into me, and my body instinctively reacts. I’m growing hard, and I consider pulling away for a moment so she doesn’t find out, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t have the strength to.

I can feel her anger building, she’s more aggressive than she was earlier today. That is arousing in itself, too. So with a shudder, I surrender to it. I allow her to feel my erection. All I can do is hope that she doesn’t flee from me again.

When she finally breaks the kiss, we are both panting. My hardness is pressed against her stomach, but she doesn’t move away. Instead she leans against me, pressing one cheek against my chest. Her breathing is fast, as is mine. “This is definitely _not_ slow,” she murmurs. I can feel her voice vibrating against my chest. Is she listening to my heartbeat?

“I know,” I say.

“I’m trying… I’m trying really hard here,” she says. “I’m trying to… I don’t really know what I’m trying to do.”

“Perhaps it’s a good thing we have guests,” I tell her. “To slow us down.” I reluctantly let her go. As we separate, I can tell she’s struggling not to look down at my body. At what she’s already felt pressed between us. Her eyes dart everywhere but at me.

“Goodnight, Katniss,” I whisper, kissing her forehead lightly. I have to get away from her now before it’s too late. I am dangerously close to pulling that dress up and taking her up against the fridge. She deserves so much more. And besides, I think I need some time. We both do.

I take a late night shower, again. I come in less than a minute.

I go to bed alone, and I wake up alone. Even though Cashmere and I are under the same roof. And even though Katniss and I are definitely not taking things slow.

This is confusing. What am I doing here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to split chapter 12 because it was so long, so this is the first part of it. Which means that the next chapter is also written in Peeta's POV. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's PMed me on FFN, sent me asks on Tumblr (I'm mockingjayflyingfree), reviewed, bookmarked, followed and favorited! I really love to hear from you. I hope you liked this chapter! Chapter 13 is almost done, too. Right now I'm working on chapters 19 and 20, because things really are about to explode. And I should warn you that they won't explode in a good way. So before I can post chapters 14 and 15, I need to write pretty much the rest of the story, to make sure it all works. So I guess this is a warning that a) after chapter 13, it might take a while before you get the next update and b) brace yourselves. I'm not kidding. It really is going to be a bumpy ride, but I need you to trust me.


	13. The true survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lbug84 for betaing (have you read her story 7 Steps yet?) and Chelzie for prereading!

**Peeta’s POV**

Cashmere and Finnick want the grand tour of 12. Haymitch, who has surprisingly come over for breakfast, guffaws and says that won’t take long. Katniss scowls and looks down at her plate. But I don’t miss the sidelong glances she sends Cashmere when she thinks no one sees her.

When we pass each other in the kitchen, it's out of habit that my fingers brush against the small of her back. It’s only for an instant, but Finnick notices. He winks at me, and his eyes twinkle at Katniss. She blushes furiously and almost drops her plate.

There may not be much to see in 12, but it’s a beautiful day. Why not make the most of it? My guests and I decide to go with Katniss, Ivy and Arrow to the Town. Katniss looks uncomfortable at my suggestion, but doesn’t object. Arrow is excited to show off Finnick to his friends at school. The two of them have really hit it off. “Perhaps you could come to school and tell my class about 4, Finnick!” he says, his gray eyes shining.

“If your teacher says yes, I’d love to do that, Arrow,” Finnick says. “I can tell them about fishing. How does that sound?”

“Cool!”

“Mrs. Grayson might not say yes, Arrow,” Katniss says. It doesn’t look like Arrow is listening, though.

Finnick dresses casually, in light brown chinos and a white shirt, which is of course buttoned down too low. Still, he doesn’t look completely out of place in 12. Cashmere, on the other hand, does. She doesn’t wear high heels – she’s survived the Hunger Games, after all, so she knows she needs comfortable shoes for walking around all day. Still, the pink designer dress she's wearing, though casual – even plain - by Capitol standards, isn't like anything in 12. She shows skin, but not too much - Cashmere is always classy. Add blonde curls, manicured nails and a pair of big sunglasses, and she looks very glamorous indeed.

I don’t miss Katniss’s scowl. She pretends not to notice Cashmere as she wraps Ivy on her back. Her motions are smooth, practiced, and she gets her daughter up in no time. Cashmere raises an eyebrow. “Practical,” she says.

“Huh?” Katniss says, confused.

Cashmere nods at Ivy. “Wearing Ivy on your back like that. She seems to like it, too.”

Cashmere takes Ivy’s little hand, and Ivy giggles. Ivy loves Cashmere. Katniss looks like she can’t decide whether or not she should smack Cashmere in the face. Thankfully she doesn’t. Instead she pretends as though she needs to check Arrow’s bag, putting some distance between Cashmere and her daughter. “Yes, it is. Although it’s also a matter of necessity in 12. No one in the Seam can afford prams.”

“Cinna should see this,” Cashmere says. “I bet he has all sorts of exclusive fabrics that would look _divine_.”

“Well, in 12 we usually choose function over divinity,” Katniss says dryly. Cashmere doesn’t answer. Katniss avoids my eyes as we leave the house.

Haymitch tags along, too. He tells Finnick and Cashmere stories from 12 that are definitely not the kind that Arrow should hear, but at least he _tries_ to make them sound as innocent as possible. Cashmere laughs, hooking her arm through his as we walk. Haymitch and Cashmere have always gotten along, although I’m not quite sure why. I know he’s never slept with her, because I asked her once. Perhaps that’s a part of it.

We follow Arrow to school, and that’s when we get the first taste of what this is going to be like. Haymitch and I are victors, but everyone in 12 is used to seeing us – drunk, mostly. We’re hardly glamorous in the eyes of our district.

Cashmere and Finnick, on the other hand, are the very definition of glamour. Arrow basks in the glow of the two career victors, even if they only spend about ten minutes in the school yard signing autographs and talking to the children before the first class. Finnick talks to Arrow’s teacher, and agrees to come and talk about 4 and teach the children some knots next week. Mrs. Grayson looks like she’s about to faint, and Haymitch and Cashmere are barely able to contain their laughter.

Katniss mumbles something about having to work, and goes back to the Victors’ Village with Ivy, which leaves the four of us alone. Four victors. I never thought I’d function as a tourist guide to 12. This is surreal. We are about as far away from the Capitol as we could possibly get, culturally, economically, and geographically. I feel it even more so now that we’re not in the privacy of my house. The divide between 12 and us seems bigger than ever. We walk through Town, and I feel hundreds of pairs of eyes on us.

Finnick insists that I show them the bakery, and I reluctantly agree. Just as I feared, my mother is there, but to my surprise, Finnick completely wins her over. She’s practically purring by the time I manage to get us out of there. I have never seen anything like it, but it’s _Finnick_ , after all. He can charm anyone when he wants to, regardless of sex and age. I’m sure my mother would fuck him on the flour sacks in a second if he asked her to.

We also pay an awkward visit to the mayor, Mr. Undersee. Haymitch insists we have to, since it would be an insult if two high-profile victors came to 12 without seeing Mr. Undersee.

The mayor has become so old. He never got over the loss of his only daughter, not that anyone expected him to. His wife died years ago, not long after Madge was killed. They said she had a tumor growing in her brain. There was nothing the doctor in 12 could do, and not even the mayor could send his wife to the Capitol for treatment.

Ever since the day I came back to 12 a victor, it’s been practically impossible for Mr. Undersee and I to relate to each other. We do meet for official functions, but I never know what to say to him. The fact that I’m alive highlights the fact that his daughter is not – since only one of us could come back. What’s more, _I_ caused her death. So I don’t blame him for seemingly being unable to meet my eyes.

So I do what I usually do when I’m around Mr. Undersee - I try to say as little as possible, and I’m relieved when the four of us get out of there and walk to the Seam. It is a beautiful day, but not all the sunshine in the world could distract us from the abject poverty. I stop by the orphanage with a bag of bread I picked up at the bakery. Katniss’s mother mentioned in passing that the conditions in the orphanage were bad. I am still not prepared for what meets me: a house full of children as thin and frail as Arrow and Ivy were when they first moved in. It’s eerily quiet, too. I suppose they are preserving their energy for… surviving. Just one more day. There is no energy left for playing, or even showing any kind of emotion.

They are all dark-haired, with olive skin and gray or brown eyes. _How many of them have lost their fathers in the mines?_ I wonder to myself. Some of them might even have mothers that are still alive. Sometimes a desperate mother will leave her child on the steps of the orphanage to keep from starving to death. But looking at their gaunt little faces, I can’t help but think that starving to death is just what they are doing here, too, though perhaps a bit more slowly.

We are all very quiet after.

I’ll be making more trips to the orphanage in the future.

When we reach the border of the Town and approach the Meadow, Cashmere breaks the silence. “Was that what it was like?” Her voice is so low I can barely hear her. “With Ivy and Arrow?” I nod. She mutters some curse words under her breath. “It’s worse in 12 than I had imagined,” she says. “We’re fucking privileged in 1.” She shakes her head slowly. “I never thought I’d say it.”

Then she puts on her sunglasses. The wall is back up.

On the way back, Finnick asks if we can go down to the river.

“Are you missing the ocean already?” I smile.

“Always,” he answers. “If you’ve been raised by the ocean, it’s in your blood, and you miss it as soon as it’s out of your sight.” He doesn’t smile back at me. I guess this is yet another reason why Finnick detests being in the Capitol.

The river is the only body of water we have here in 12. The nearest ocean is beyond the wilderness, so it will have to do for Finnick for now. Cashmere complains about her shoes. I guess they weren’t as comfortable as she’d thought. But we’ve been on our feet all day, and I bet she doesn’t walk this much in 1, or anywhere for that matter. Haymitch and Cashmere decide to head back to the Victor’s Village, while Finnick and I take a detour down to the river.

Finnick sheds his clothes and jumps into the water before I even have the chance to remove my shoes. It doesn’t bother me, it’s hardly the first time I’ve seen him naked. After all, we are both in the prostitution business, and more than a few rich Capitolites have paid for the services of two of Panem’s most popular victors – at the same time. Finnick moves through the water effortlessly, it’s as if he belongs there. He stops, treading water as he looks back at me, with my pants rolled up and wading in the shallow water, and shouts back, “Jump in, Peeta!”

I shake my head. The water does look inviting, as we’re upstream of the mines. This is where 12 gets its drinking water. Downstream, the river is dead. “I can’t swim,” I shout to him.

“What?!” Finnick looks like he can’t even imagine that it’s possible for anyone not to know how to swim. Well, he’s from 4, so I guess he can’t.

“Most people in 12 can’t swim,” I tell him.

“This district is the most fucked up place I’ve ever seen.” Then he disappears under the water again.

 

* * *

 

I’m not quite sure how it happens, but somehow we’re all planning a picnic by the river the next day. Complete with swimming, of course. Actually, Cashmere and Finnick do the planning, while Katniss scowls and Haymitch mutters something under his breath.

Cashmere says she’ll do the cooking. I remember Gloss once saying that she loves cooking in 1, but I’ve only met her in the Capitol, where food is simply something you order, not something you make, so I have a hard time imagining it. She’s so excited about it that she even goes back to the Town to get some more supplies, her previously aching feet apparently forgotten. Although she does wear a different pair of shoes for her second trip to the Town.

Katniss and the children will go on the picnic, too. Tomorrow is Saturday, so there’s no school. I suspect that Katniss doesn’t want to, but it’s impossible to say no to Arrow when he's given the option of spending more time with Finnick.

 

* * *

 

Katniss and I have very little time together with visitors in the house. It’s probably a good thing, considering how heated our time alone had become before Finnick and Cashmere showed up. Still, I crave being alone with her, and it’s not only because I want to feel her body against mine again. But this morning, the opportunity for some time alone readily presents itself as I look for a clean t-shirt after Ivy accidentally knocked over a glass of milk in my direction. Katniss comes into my room to change the sheets on my bed. She looks startled for a second as she drinks in my naked chest, and I can’t help but blush. I quickly slip on the clean t-shirt and smile at her.

Something is different now, though. The usual scowl is still on her face, even though we are alone, and she still avoids my eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her.

“Nothing.”

She’s pushing me away again. “Aren’t we past this?” She doesn’t answer. I cross the floor, closing the distance between us. “Look at me, Katniss – please?”

When she looks into my eyes, I’m surprised to see that hers are shining with tears. “What’s wrong?” I whisper, and I’m even more surprised when she actually comes to me, seeking my comfort. I offer her my arms, and holding her is so easy, so natural. Her body is so small yet so strong, and it feels like it belongs here, next to mine.

“It’s… the river. I used to go there… with Gale. And…”

It's not easy to hear her talk about Gale, but that's just me being selfish. I want to comfort her. I’m glad she trusts me enough to tell me what’s bothering her. It shows how far we’ve come from the quiet, reserved woman who moved into my house five months ago. And I guess how far I’ve come from the angry, drunk victor, too. “You don’t have to go if you think it’s too much,” I tell her. “I can take Arrow if you want to. It’s okay.”

She shakes her head. “No, he really wants me there. And I want to go, too... I think,” she adds, after a pause.

“If you're sure, we'll go together. We'll try to enjoy ourselves, okay? And if it gets to be too much, we can always come back home.”

She looks up at me, and her cheeks are wet with tears. I gently brush them away. Her eyes are hesitant. There is guilt there too, I think. It’s not hard to imagine why. She’s crying over one man in the arms of another. I guess I’d feel guilty if the situations were reversed, too – not because I had any real reason to feel guilty, but because I probably couldn’t help it. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“For what?”

“For laying this on you. I know things are complicated, it’s a lot to handle, and…” Her voice trails off. “I’m sure things would be less complicated with Cashmere.” She suddenly sounds defensive. Her eyes dart to the floor.

I can’t help but laugh. She looks up at me, surprised. “Trust me, there’s nothing that could possibly be more complicated than Cashmere.” I tighten my grip around her. “We’re both fucked up, okay? Two victors together – it would be a disaster.”  I shake my head, still chuckling.

I kiss her forehead and release her, but our touch lingers. This talk somehow seems more significant than the recent… advances we’ve had in our physical relationship.

 

* * *

 

It’s another beautiful day, and we’re all in a good mood as we get ready to leave for the picnic –  except Katniss. She’s quiet. Too quiet. So, I watch her. Haymitch seems to keep an eye on her, too. Does he know that Katniss used to go to the river with Gale? It seems unlikely, but I don’t really know what happened after I asked Haymitch to check on her, back when I was in the Capitol. Katniss does seem to relax a bit more once we get down to the river, though. There is even a small smile on her lips as she sees Arrow running around in the grass. I take that as a good sign.

The smile disappers when Finnick starts taking his clothes off, though. Katniss turns beet red and stares down at her feet. When Finnick is down to his swimming shorts, and I’m more than a little relieved that he’s not swimming naked this time, he looks at the rest of us expectantly. I know Finnick very well. He’s actually _not_ putting on a show to make Katniss flushed and uncomfortable right now, and he knows Haymitch, Cashmere and I don’t care. Still, I guess all Katniss sees is that he’s almost naked. I smile at that. She's so pure.

Finnick looks at us, grinning. “Coming?” he asks.

I shake my head. He already knows I can’t swim. Haymitch says, “Hell no!” and guffaws, and Katniss sends him a dirty look for swearing in front of the children. I guess he can’t swim, either. Cashmere sticks her toe into the river and complains about the cold water, and says she’ll get the food ready instead. Finnick taunts her, but she doesn’t listen. She knows him too well to care.

“How about you, woman on fire?” he says to Katniss, and I fully expect her to shake her head and say no. Very few people in 12 can swim. But instead of instantly saying no, she hesitates, and looks longingly at the river.

Katniss can swim. The realization hits me hard, almost as hard as the idea of seeing Katniss wearing… I’m not sure what she’d wear to swim. But I’m sure she wouldn’t be wearing that summer dress.

“Daddy was going to teach me to swim this summer,” Arrow says, his little face serious. “Wasn’t he, Mama?”

Katniss nods, stroking her son’s hair. “Yes. But perhaps I can teach you instead? I was the one who taught your Daddy to swim, after all.”

“You taught Gale to swim?” I ask her, surprised.

“Yes. My father taught me when I was little.” She looks at me. “Can you take Ivy for me?” I nod and take her.

Katniss sheds her dress, and for a split second I think I’m going to faint. She must have planned to go for a swim, because she’s wearing a dark tank top and a pair of dark, tight-fitting shorts underneath. She’s quite a sight. Those legs… Ugh, I’m a creep. I’m lusting over her while holding Ivy in my arms. I force my gaze away and look at Finnick, who’s already wading in the river. He looks like something out of a fairytale with his perfectly sculpted upper body. Katniss follows him, and without looking directly at him, starts swimming when the water reaches her thighs. The river runs slow and wide here, and I suspect Katniss has swam here before, because it looks like she knows exactly which place is the best to get into the river.

And then the strangest thing happens. Katniss, who has previously been so reserved and flustered in Finnick’s presence, actually appears to have _fun_. It starts when he splashes water in her face. Instead of scowling, which I had expected her to do, she splashes him back. I smile at this unexpected change in her behavior.

Finnick is a better swimmer than Katniss, which is not surprising, but she's keeping up.  The two of them talk to each other as they swim, too – and it’s not a conversation centered around Finnick pushing Katniss’s boundaries or making her flustered just to see if he can. From what I can hear, they are talking about swimming and fishing - an everyday, relaxed conversation. Arrow stands on the river bank and watches them. Finnick pretends to be a whale, and Arrow laughs.

I sit with Haymitch, Cashmere and Ivy on a blanket in the shade under a tree, keeping Ivy out of the sun. We observe the strange and unexpected sight. “She’s really something, isn’t she?” Cashmere says, keeping her voice low. I guess she doesn’t want Arrow to hear her.

“Yep,” Haymitch answers with a smile that is hard to place. I think it’s a _proud_ smile? Yes, it must be pride.

“What do you mean?” I ask her.

Cashmere nods towards the river, raising an eyebrow when she sees my confusion. “Finnick sensed it immediately, too.”

I don’t know what to say. Haymitch winks at me. “I used to buy squirrels from her, years ago. She got them right through the eye, every time.” His voice is very low now.  I don’t think it’s just because he doesn’t want Arrow to overhear us. Is he afraid someone’s listening here, too? I know my house is wired, as is his, but could they really be listening out here by the river, too?

I can’t be sure. But I see the look on Cashmere’s face. She curls some wrapping paper that was around a sandwich in her fist, over again and over again. The sound is almost loud enough to drown out Haymitch’s near whisper. I’m sure it’s not a coincidence now. “ _Got them_? With what?”

Haymitch’s eyes dart to Arrow, and he raises his eyebrows as he looks back at her. Cashmere nods slowly. “ _Really_?” She pauses, then continues, “I didn’t think there would be that many squirrels here in 12. There aren’t that many trees.” She’s still making those noises with the wrapping paper.

“There aren’t. She had turkeys sometimes, too. Even deer meat.”

Cashmere’s eyes widen. I can see that she understands. “Wow,” she breathes. “That’s… extraordinary. And it certainly explains a lot.” Cashmere is not only very intelligent, she is also a survivor. Surely she recognizes survival skills when she sees them. Such as the silent walk of a huntress, or the way Katniss moves effortlessly through the water. And now she’s been told of Katniss’s archery skills, which must be spectacular. I’ve seen her squirrels, too. My father used to buy them, at least he did before I was reaped. What he did after, I don’t know. Haymitch is right – they were always shot through the eye.

Katniss would come to the back door of the bakery to avoid seeing my mother. Usually my father or Rye opened the door, but sometimes I’d be the lucky one. I never trusted my wavering teenage voice to actually _say_ anything to her, other than perhaps “hi," and even that one word would often come out squeaky, and I’d hate myself afterwards. But I’d notice _everything_ about her. The gray shade of her eyes. The strands of hair that had escaped from her braid. How skinny she was, yet the strength and confidence in her gait when she moved.

I also noticed the tall, dark, handsome boy who was always with her. His voice was deep, dark, and never cracked.

Katniss wades out of the water, still laughing. Water drips down from her hair and her dark garments, which cling to her body. “Do you want to try to swim before we eat?” she asks Arrow, and he nods eagerly. “Take off your clothes, then,” she continues, and he does as he’s told. She helps him into the water and she encourages him to lay flat on his back and float, keeping her hands under his shoulders and knees. Finnick doesn’t help her; I suppose he realizes that would be going too far, but he does offer advice, and he tells stories about when he learned to swim that make Arrow laugh. 

 “It’s a good thing for you Katniss wasn’t reaped, Peeta,” Cashmere says. “She would’ve kicked your ass. You never would’ve made it out of that arena alive.”

It should be an insult to me, but strangely, my heart swells with pride instead.  What’s more, I know that she’s right. Of the two of us, Katniss is the true survivor, not me. I’m grateful Katniss wasn’t reaped. The very real possibility that she would beat me is one thing, of course, but what’s even worse is the thought of going into the arena, knowing that even in the best case scenario, only one of us could live. I can’t imagine anything worse than having to kill Katniss, or watching someone else kill her. Madge and Rue’s deaths were bad enough. But Katniss…? I’m not sure if I would’ve survived that.

Katniss never had to go through the desperation, the murders, and the paranoia in the arena. She didn’t have to experience what came after, either. Prostitution, surveillance, and constant control. I know she’s had a difficult life. She lost her father, her mother had a breakdown that took her years to get over, and she lost her husband. Katniss has starved for almost half her life.

But at least she was never reaped.

The three swimmers come out of the water when we promise them sandwiches, apple pie and cinnamon rolls. Cashmere hands me a sandwich, and I take a bite, trying not to stare at Katniss as she wrings the water out of her long hair. Cashmere really is a good cook. I try to identify the ingredients in the sauce, but I can’t quite place them all.

Katniss and Arrow disappear behind some bushes with a bag and a towel, and come back a few minutes later, wearing the same clothes they wore when we walked here.

The conversation flows easily with lots of laughter, which is still a new sound to me. I laugh more than I ever have in the presence of other the victors in… ever, probably. Finnick entertains Arrow and the rest of us with fishing stories. I’m certain he must be making up most of them, or at least exaggerating wildly. Even Katniss is doubled over in laughter when he tells a ridiculous story of a man who was swallowed by a great fish, but who – days later – was spit out alive. I don’t know much about fish, but surely that can’t be true. Haymitch has put his bottle away in the presence of the children and seems relaxed and content, despite being almost sober. Cashmere keeps passing food around.

“You have to tell me the recipe of that sauce,” I tell her.

She laughs. “No way, Peeta,” she says. “It’s a family secret.”

“Oh, come on, we’re family, aren’t we?” The words slip out of my mouth without thinking, and I instantly regret them when I see from the corner of my eye that Katniss freezes.

“My mother wouldn’t agree with that definition of family, Mellark,” she says, rolling her eyes. “She’d kill to protect that recipe. One time, I thought she might just do that, when her nosy neighbor tried to steal it. Mother later told me that she came to her senses when she realized that she’d mess up her newly manicured fingernails if she’d strangled the stupid woman.” 

“Your mother isn’t a victor, is she?” Haymitch laughs.

“No. She didn’t volunteer because she broke her wrist in training two weeks before her final reaping.” Cashmere looks down, clearly uncomfortable.

“Good for her,” I say dryly.

She looks up, meeting my eyes. “Yes,” she says simply.

Katniss is watching us, but for once, she doesn’t have a scowl on her face. When she notices that I’ve caught her staring, she instantly looks away, a blush on her cheeks.

Ivy, who has been crawling all over the picnic blanket, is now sitting in her lap. She looks like a miniature Katniss, down to the gray shade of her irises. Katniss hugs her daughter tighter, and she looks – worried? She knows by now that being a victor is far from being desirable. She’s seen what it’s done to me and Haymitch, even though she doesn’t even know the half of it. And having Finnick and Cashmere here – granted, she’s mainly seen the glossy surface of both of them, but I think she must have realized there’s more going on here than we’ve told her.

It’s Ivy who defuses the tension when, in a moment of distraction on Katniss’s part, she realizes she’s just within reach of the apple pie. Two seconds later, there is apple pie everywhere - all over Ivy’s dress, smeared on Katniss’s leg... Some even got on Cashmere. Ivy looks so happy with her chubby little fingers full of apple pie, sticking them in her mouth, that Cashmere can’t help but laugh. And although Katniss looks annoyed at first – probably at herself for not intervening in time – she has to smile, too.

We don’t talk about the Hunger Games after that. We stick to safe topics, such as fishing, or cooking, or school.

It’s strange, sitting here in the sunshine with them all like this. Relaxed, content. I know the shadows are not far away. They never are.

 

* * *

 

The days pass quickly. I don’t turn the calendar when we go from May to June. But I don’t need a calendar to know that the reapings are coming up all too soon.

Cashmere and Finnick stay for a week, and then they have to go home to their districts. After the reapings, we’ll meet again in the Capitol to mentor... and to be sold. Business as usual.

I’m strangely divided. I’ve enjoyed having Cashmere and Finnick here, but at the same time, they serve as a constant reminder of where we met, the horrors we’ve lived through, and what’s waiting for us in the Capitol. It’s frustrating because I don’t quite know how to deal with it.

The Capitol seems far away when we sit around the kitchen table at night playing poker, with the windows open so we can smell the flowers. With Finnick here, Katniss gets more competition. Finnick is a very good poker player, and he likes to win. He takes advantage of the fact that he can still embarrass Katniss, tricking her into making mistakes. His charm is turned all the way up, he's using his dimples for all they’re worth, and we all secretly enjoy how flustered she gets.

Katniss seems a lot more relaxed now, even though I know she’s still observing how Cashmere and I interact. She even has a few actual conversations with Cashmere. Although they are stiff and awkward, at least on Katniss’s part, it’s progress. They aren’t shooting daggers across the table anymore like they did that first night.

“It’s a truce,” Cashmere says one day as we make lunch together in the kitchen. We’ve started cooking together now that we have realized how much we both enjoy it. “But a fragile one.”

“So… Do you approve?”

“Of her?” I nod. "For you?" I hesitate, but nod again. She looks away. “I don’t think she’s a gold digger, if that's what you mean.”

It wasn’t what I meant, but I don’t ask any more questions.

 

* * *

 

I get up very early to bake. I can’t get any sleep, so I might as well do something useful. As I knead the dough, deep in thought, I suddenly feel two strong yet slender arms embrace me from behind. I know who those arms belong to.

“Katniss,” I breathe, and turn around, my hands covered in flour. I can’t hold her without making a mess, but she steps closer, and I lean down so that our lips can meet. It’s been so long. I can’t believe this has become my life now – a stolen early morning kiss from Katniss. The embrace quickly becomes more heated as she deepens the kiss. My body’s reaction to her is instant, and I don’t try to hide it. I can tell she notices by the way her hips buck into mine. She pulls away when Ivy tries to open the door of the fridge, and she quickly comes to the rescue. Giving her daughter a couple of wooden spoons to distract her, she turns back to me, while keeping a watchful eye on both Ivy and the door.

“Peeta,” she says. I love hearing her say my name. Her body is so close to mine now, but not quite touching.

“We’ve had so little time lately,” I whisper in her ear. My heart races as my right hand trails along her spine, and I feel a shiver go through her. I’ve probably left a trail of flour along her back now.

“Yes. We were supposed to go slow though, right?”

“Yes. Slow is good,” I agree.

She cocks her head. “I’m not sure if ‘good’ is the right word,” she says with a dark smile. Then she steps away from me. I’m about to ask her why when Finnick suddenly stands in the doorway. She must’ve heard him coming down the stairs, even though I didn’t. Still the huntress. The raised eyebrow tells me Finnick has picked up on the tension in the room, and he knows he’s interrupted something. His eyes linger on Katniss’s back, and the flour there.

I pretend as if nothing’s happened. I wonder what it will be like to meet Finnick and Cashmere again in the Capitol, under what is – for us – _normal_ circumstances? We have seen each other like this now. Relaxed, far away from the Capitol. I’ve seen Finnick playing soccer with Arrow, heard the stories he's told him. I’ve seen Cashmere in the kitchen with flour in her hair. What is it going to be like when we get back into our Capitol personas only a few short days from now?

My heart beats faster just thinking about it. I try to focus on Katniss’s braid instead, the way it moves as she picks Ivy up from the floor. The smile she sends me when Finnick looks the other way.

It doesn’t help as much as I’d hoped it would. I take a sip of coffee, and for the first time in weeks, I wish there was white liquor in it.

 

* * *

 

The days are good. I’m mostly able to shut the Hunger Games out, at least enough to function. The nights, however, are long, dark and lonely. The closer the reaping gets, the harder I find it to sleep. I don’t think I’m the only one. Haymitch has upped his drinking when we play poker at night, and he never shows up before 4 in the afternoon. Cashmere has dark rings under her eyes, and I’ve caught Finnick staring at the picture of Annie in his wallet, several times.

Finnick came here because of me. He sacrificed precious time together with Annie for _me_. He spends more time in the Capitol than any of the rest of us. No one has suffered more from Snow’s prostitution than Finnick has.

One night, when it’s just the two of us, I ask him: “Why did you choose to come here instead of spending an extra week with Annie?”

“Well, you said it yourself,” he answers. “You’re family, and Annie knows that. You think she doesn’t realize how important you, Cashmere and the others have been to me over the years?”

I’ve always thought of Finnick as sort of my prostitution mentor. He’s the one who holds it all together. I haven’t really considered my own role in the group, though. I always thought of myself as dispensable, unlike Finnick. Perhaps I was wrong.

I also know that if things progress as well as they can, a relationship like the one Finnick has with Annie is the most Katniss and I can hope for. If Katniss is willing to accept what I am, that is, and what I do – because sooner or later, she will find out. She must.

But not yet.

Annie knew all about the Capitol long before she got together with Finnick. I wonder if that made it easier for her to accept what Finnick has to do to keep her safe? Katniss, however, doesn’t understand the Capitol, and I’m afraid that if I try to explain how things work in the Capitol to her, I’ll lose her. I know I’m weak, a coward. I should tell her. But I can’t lose her, especially now that she finally _notices_ me. Now that she looks up at me with fire in her eyes. I can make her smile. I can run my finger down her spine, and feel how her body reacts to my touch.

How can I do anything to risk losing that?

So I get through my lonely, dark nights without Katniss – and without Cashmere. And even as I try to shut the Capitol and the Hunger Games out from my mind, I know that they are getting closer.

Even though the calendar still says May.

 

* * *

 

I am woken from my nightmare by a pair of strong hands, shaking me. Even in the darkness, I know instinctively who it is.

I gasp, breathing heavily as the nightmare slowly recedes. The lamp on the night stand is on, as always, but she turns on a few more lamps as well. She knows that light makes the ghosts fade away faster. She sits on my bed, dressed in an expensive-looking cream silk nightdress . She has dark rings under her eyes.

“You too?” I ask, running my fingers through my hair. My hands are shaking.

She nods. “Yes.”

“Did I scream?”

She shakes her head. “No. I heard you and woke you up before you got that far.” Cashmere is very familiar with my nightmares. “I couldn’t go back to sleep. I was going to go downstairs, just… to wait for tomorrow.” Finnick and Cashmere are leaving in the morning.

“I’m going to miss you. Both of you,” I say impulsively. And it’s true.

She smiles a tired smile. “You’ll see us again soon enough.” That’s true, too.

"Do you think Diamond is ready?"

"No, I don't. But then again, none of us are."

I nod my head. She's right. None of us are ready. Every year is just as awful as the last. And in addition to the prostitution, this will be Diamond’s first year as a mentor.

“It’s been nice, though. Seeing you here, where you belong.” My pulse is slowly decreasing, and I lean back against the padded headboard. Cashmere slips under the sheets with me, but doesn’t touch me. She’s lying on her side with one hand supporting her head, looking up at me.  “It’s different.”

I know what she means. Us not sleeping in the same bed. We've retired to separate rooms, and not sought out each other's company. Until tonight. “You and Katniss don’t really get along very well, do you?”

She snorts. “You noticed?” She smiles a wry smile. “She’s just jealous, Peeta.”

“Yes,” I agree.

She lifts an eyebrow. “You’ve told her about us, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d do that.”

I wasn’t sure, either. “She asked me. I couldn’t lie to her.”

She nods. Her index finger traces my upper arm, traveling lightly over my skin, past my elbow and down to find my fingers, where hers intertwine with mine. “She is a good woman, Peeta - and you are a good man, even though you don’t believe it yourself.” My eyes meet hers. “It’s not going to be easy for you to make it work.”

“Says Cashmere Graph, the expert on relationships?”

She laughs, but it’s hollow. “Who said I haven’t had relationships?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like…” My voice trails off.

She shrugs. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I keep my life in 1 separate from my life in the Capitol, like you do.” But we both know that when she and Finnick came here, the wall of separation was shattered.

“Is it even possible? To be with someone who isn’t part of it all?” I whisper.

She shrugs. “There are a few victors who are in normal relationships with regular citizens of their home districts, like Cecilia. But they haven’t been as deeply invested in Snow’s business empire as you and I are. Their Games weren't particular popular ones, or their images weren’t quite right. Then there’s Finnick, of course. But that’s different.”

Yes, it is. Annie knows far too much about what happens in the Capitol.

I know that Cashmere is right. “I wish you both the best of luck,” she says, and she starts to get up.

“You’re not staying?” I ask impulsively. She can’t keep the nightmares away, not completely, but it’s still comforting with a warm body in my bed. I know she shouldn’t stay. She really shouldn’t. But still, I can’t help but ask. I’m so tired, and the night is so dark and lonely.

She leans in towards me and kisses me very lightly on the lips. I feel her warm breath, and then she leans back. “No.” She looks almost sad. “I don’t think Katniss would approve.”

"No, she wouldn’t." The fear of facing the darkness alone made me ask. And habit. “Thank you, Cashmere. For… everything.”

She turns by the door and looks back at me. This time, her smile is genuine. “The same to you, Peeta. Good night.”

Then she is gone.

As I lie there in the darkness, alone, the weight of what is coming up – very soon – lies heavily on me. I can barely breathe, it feels as if someone is sitting on my chest. But there is no one here. I’m alone.

The reaping is only days away. Once again, I’ll have to watch two children – most likely from the Seam – be reaped. I’ll know, as soon as I see them, that they don’t stand a chance. I’ll try to prepare them, knowing they'll most likely die. I haven't been able to save one yet. And even though I’ve done this many times before, it will still be devastating when they are killed.

It will never end.

A few years from now, Arrow will be of reaping age. He’s already seven. How is it going to feel to look down at the 12-year-olds from the stage and see his face in the crowd? How is Katniss going to cope? How am _I_ going to cope?

There is no way out of this. When I try to imagine my future, all I see are reapings. Dead children. Capitol clients.

Knowing that they are always, _always_ listening.

I’ll never be able to escape it. The best I can offer Katniss is not having to starve, and a ruined reputation. I want her. Need her, even. But I know she’d be much better off without me. I’m poison to her. I’ll drag her into this nightmare with me, and I know I could never forgive myself if anything happened to her or her children because of me.

Is she going to despise me when she finds out about my trips to the Capitol? I think she will. I despise myself. How could she not?

I don’t get any sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I need to warn you that the shit is going to hit the fan in the next chapter. There will be an explosion, as I hinted at earlier, and it's coming in chapter 14. I write this here because quite a few of you expressed relief when I told you in advance about the prostitution scenes in the Capitol. 
> 
> I make a habit of dragging my poor characters to hell and back, and I’m going to do it yet again. But I need you all to have an open mind and trust me. This story is endgame Everlark, I promise!


	14. Explode I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting this chapter right has taken weeks of hard work and frustration. This final version is actually draft 7 (I think), and I don’t know how many times I’ve discussed it with my beta Lbug84. Thank you for your patience and support!
> 
> I know I promised you an explosion in this chapter, and you are getting it. Sort of. But it’s not actually the explosion I was talking about earlier, the one that required you to trust me in that this fic is endgame Everlark. I’m postponing that one until chapter 15, so what you’re getting in this chapter is a different explosion. 
> 
> This chapter will answer some of the questions you have asked me about Peeta’s past. 
> 
> This chapter is long at nearly 8,000 words, but there is really no way I can split it, so you’ll just have to bear with me. 
> 
> Trigger warnings: Drug abuse. Murder of children. 
> 
> Thank you so much to Chelzie for prereading!

**Katniss POV**

I wake up; it must be the middle of the night. Disoriented, I take a look at the clock on the nightstand. It’s three in the morning. Sighing, I slip out of bed to go to the bathroom. I listen for Ivy’s slow, steady breathing. She’s sound asleep.

In the hallway, I walk silently to avoid waking anyone up. I hear a door creaking behind me and turn around. It’s coming from Peeta’s room.

But it’s not Peeta.

Cashmere doesn’t see me at first; her back is towards me as she closes the door very slowly. When the door clicks shut, she turns around and her eyes widen in surprise. Her luscious hair falls freely over her shoulders. She’s barefoot like I am, and wearing a cream colored silk nightgown which looks… fantastic. Of course.

I don’t know what to do. If I had the strength, I would simply turn around and walk away. That would probably be the best course of action, but I don’t. I’m frozen in place. There is a hollow feeling in my chest. I just stare at her – and she stares right back at me, but I can’t read her expression. 

Cashmere walks towards me. The guest room she's supposed to be sleeping in is behind me, but instead of walking past, she stops right in front of me. Now that she’s closer, I see that she has dark rings under her eyes, and she looks tired. It’s the first time I’ve seen her look anything but perfect. “Been up all night?” I ask. I wonder where that snarky remark came from. I’m surprised by how steady my voice sounds.

She smiles wryly. “Yes.” Her shoulder brushes mine as she walks past me. “He’s all yours.”

“Wait.”

She turns around and meets my eyes. “I didn’t sleep with him, Katniss.” Her voice is a whisper.

“But I know you have before.” My mouth is dry. I’m whispering, too. I don’t want to wake the children, and I don’t want anyone to overhear this conversation. Peeta, least of all. I suspect he’s awake. Cashmere _did_ just leave his room.

She chuckles darkly, but she doesn’t smile. “Yes.” She pauses, studying me. I’m wearing an old oversized t-shirt that used to be Gale’s and a pair of sleeping shorts. Both are washed-out and worn. My hair is mussed from sleep. Still, I straighten my back and refuse to look away. “Be good to him. He deserves it.”

She turns around and instead of going to her room, she walks downstairs, leaving me in the hallway. Speechless.

 

* * *

 

Peeta and Haymitch follow Cashmere and Finnick to the train station. Arrow is excited at the prospect of seeing a train up close, and Peeta asks if he can come with them. I reluctantly agree. When I see how much it means to Arrow, I don’t feel as though I can say no. I hope not too many Town – or Seam – housewives will see them, though. If the old hags see Arrow and Peeta together without me being present, it certainly won’t seem like I am just Peeta’s housekeeper.

Although I’m not just Peeta’s housekeeper anymore, am I?

Letting Peeta take Arrow to the train station was probably a really bad idea. Still, I feel relief that the two victors have finally left. I feel like I can breathe more freely already, even though Finnick and Cashmere have only been out of the house for ten minutes.

To avoid thinking about the gossip and my confusion over what exactly my relationship with Peeta is, I busy myself by cleaning. It is my job after all. I strip the sheets off the beds in the guest rooms first, and then I find myself pausing outside of Peeta's bedroom door before I turn the knob. It’s hard to look at his bed, knowing that Cashmere was probably in it last night. And our conversation in the hallway after? What was that? She said she didn’t sleep with Peeta, and I suppose I believe her. Still, just knowing that she was in Peeta’s bedroom makes me feel sick.

Before Finnick and Cashmere came to visit, Peeta and I were headed somewhere that is both scary and quite possibly wonderful. And now? What happens next? What are we to each other, exactly?

I know where this is headed. My body knows it very well, and has for some time. I want him, which, considering the circumstances, is probably bad enough. It’s dangerous to be with a man you’re not married to. It would be a disaster if I got pregnant. Still, women keep taking that chance. I’ve seen it happen many times. I never understood why any woman would sleep with a man she was not married to, or at the very least in a serious relationship with, though – at least not until now. This is why. This overwhelming need to be close to a man, no matter what society tells you is proper or acceptable.

But deep down, I know that it’s not just a physical need, and that’s perhaps even scarier. It hasn’t even been a year since I lost Gale. Yet here I am, falling for another man.

What’s worse, Peeta is not just any man. He's a victor. He has a life in the Capitol that I know very little about, a life I don’t quite understand. There is a darkness there, but I don’t know what it all _means_.

Clearly, cleaning doesn’t help at all. I can’t stop thinking, stop worrying.

Ivy is napping when I hear Peeta’s heavy steps in the hall. He stops at the doorway, watching me as I finish making his bed. “Where’s Arrow?” I ask him.

“He wanted to help Haymitch out with the geese. I said it was okay...Wasn’t it?” he asks nervously when he sees my scowl.

I want to tell him to stop making decisions regarding _my_ child, but I hold my tongue. I try to tell myself that it’s hardly a big thing. Arrow is only in Haymitch’s backyard. “I’m sorry,” he says, looking guilty now. “I didn’t think.”

I'm suddenly angry, and it doesn't help that I’m confused by everything that’s happened this last week. I don’t know what to do, so I do what I do best: I walk away. I’m stopped by Peeta’s voice.

“Katniss.” I stop, but I don’t turn around. “Look at me, please.” I reluctantly turn around, and he comes towards me. “I know you saw Cashmere last night. She told me.” I really don’t want to think about their conversation. “Nothing happened with her. You know that, right?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I mutter.

I try to walk away again, but his hand curled around my arm stops me. “Yes, it does.” I look down at his hand touching my arm, refusing to meet his eyes. With one finger under my chin, he forces me to look up at him.  “It matters to me, okay?  I had a nightmare, and she was just checking in on me.” He takes a deep breath. “I told you that Cashmere was my lover, right?” I nod. “I didn't tell you everything. She hasn’t just been my lover. She has also helped me survive.”

I frown. I don’t understand.

His hands move up to rest on both of my cheeks, holding my head lightly between them. He won’t let me walk away from this unpleasant conversation. “She’s not a threat to us, Katniss.” He leans a bit closer, and for a second, I think he’s going to kiss my lips, but he simply kisses my forehead.

“I don't understand,” I tell him, my voice strangled. "How could Cashmere… help you _survive_?"

Instead of answering, he releases me. “Where’s Ivy?”

I narrow my eyes. He knows very well that she’s napping. His obvious attempt to change the subject makes me angry. Why doesn’t he trust me? Why doesn’t he help me understand?

“Peeta… look at me.” He complies. His eyes meet mine as he straightens his back. He looks flushed and uneasy. Scared, even. "You said she wasn’t a threat to ‘us’. I need to know. What exactly are we?”

“I’m not sure,” he admits. “I just know that we are something that Cashmere and I have never been.”

 I hear the door slamming, and I know that Arrow’s home. I try to pretend as if nothing’s happened when Arrow comes into the room. Peeta has already disappeared into the kitchen. As I look at my son, who must have grown at least two inches since he moved into this house and started eating properly, it’s impossible not to think about his father. I can already tell that Arrow is going to be just like him – tall, dark, handsome. Girls loved Gale. They are going to love Arrow, too.

“The train was so big, Mama!” he says, his eyes wide and excited.

“Did it whistle?” I ask him.

“Yes! _Really_ loud! And Finnick showed me his suite before the train left. Everything was so shiny. And it had a _bed_!” He goes on and on about the marvels of the Capitol train. My mind wanders as he speaks, and I answer my son automatically.

 

* * *

 

I expected things between Peeta and I to go back to what they were before Finnick and Cashmere's visit, but they don’t. I realize now it may have been silly of me to think that.

I also know why.

As the reaping gets closer, Peeta becomes more distracted. He’s quieter, and sometimes when I talk to him, he seems so far away. It’s not just him – Haymitch is also drunker than I’ve ever seen him. I try to imagine what it must be like to have to choose between two tributes, hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe, you can save one of them - only to see them both die. To bring them home to 12, their caskets in the last car of the train - if there's anything to return home at all, that is. Knowing that you have failed… Year after year, it’s the same.

No, I can’t imagine what it must be like. Not really.

This is part of the Peeta that I _don’t_ know - the Capitol Peeta. Capitol Peeta doesn’t bake, he doesn’t laugh, and he doesn’t play with the children. Capitol Peeta is pushing me away, and I don’t understand.

Peeta hasn’t actually left yet, but I can see that he’s mentally preparing himself to go. He’s already started to change. This is what he was like just before he left for the Capitol the last time, too – only now it’s worse.

There are a few embraces between us. He hugs me from behind in the kitchen, his lips brushing against my neck. But as I tilt my head the side, allowing him better access, he pulls away. When I turn to face him, he refuses to look at me.

Haymitch is drinking heavily and doesn't come over anymore, and Peeta and I find ourselves alone once the children are in bed. I reach out my hand and drag him to the couch, where I kiss him and run my hands over his chest and back. I think it might be more to distract him than anything else.

But it’s not like it was before. It is neither heated nor sweet and exploratory. All the touching and kissing does is leave me empty – and what it does for Peeta I simply don’t know. It’s not only that I’m sexually frustrated – what’s actually even worse is that Peeta doesn’t really seem to be _here_ with me. There’s something almost mechanical about the way he moves. I open my mouth, my tongue seeking his, trying to _reach_ him. He pulls back abruptly and opens his eyes. He’s short of breath, and his grip on me is a bit too firm as he holds my hips steady.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he murmurs as he gets up from the couch. “I…” His voice trails off.

I furrow my brow. “What’s going on, Peeta?” I ask him.

“Nothing. I’m just… tired. I really need to go to bed.” The dark rings he usually has under his eyes have gotten darker lately.

I consider asking him if he wants me to come with him to his room, if only to help him sleep. I haven’t forgotten how well I slept that night he found me crying in the bathroom and carried me to my bed. Peeta didn’t leave me. He held me, kept me safe. I also remember how he said he didn’t have any nightmares that night, and I’m pretty sure that the nightmares must be behind his pale, haggard look.

But... if I let him into my bed, I’m fairly certain we _won’t_ just sleep. What would it make us? Would it change us? I was getting ready, but this Peeta - Capitol Peeta - with whom I currently share a house, is different. He's more like the way he was when I first moved in. He’s dark. Distant. There’s a sort of quiet desperation in his eyes that I think he tries to hide from me, but he doesn’t succeed.

Still, I want him. My fantasies are back too. It’s almost scary that they are even more intense than ever, despite seeing how much Peeta is struggling. Hardly a night goes by without me desperately trying to stay silent as my back arches and I imagine what it would be like. What _he_ would be like, the sounds he would make. I’ve already felt him hard against me, in the kitchen that night. What would he feel like without the constraints of our clothes? What would I do to him? What would he do to me?

I thought that he wanted me, too. I think he still does, but he’s slipping away from me. What are they doing to him in the Capitol?

 

* * *

 

It’s the night before the reaping. It’s always very unpleasant. To add to the tension and fear already permeating the district, there are several hours of mandatory viewing. It’s always the same. Caesar Flickerman leads us through a three-hour show to warm Panem up for this year’s Hunger Games.

Watching the reapings and the Hunger Games has always been terrible, of course, but it became even worse after I became a mother. I didn’t truly understand the magnitude of the terror the Capitol is subjecting the districts to until Arrow was born.

Five years from now, Arrow will be eligible for his first reaping. How am I going to survive it?

Tomorrow will be Posy’s last reaping. I wonder how many times her name is in that bowl. I know she’s taken out tesserae, but I don’t know how many. I suspect she has had to take out far too many though. Posy, who never even got to meet her father. At least Gale had a few months together with Ivy. Even though she won’t remember him, those months were still precious.

Posy will get married in the fall. She and her miner boyfriend haven’t dared to set a date yet, though. She will have to get through tomorrow first.

I am expected to watch the show, so I do, but no one can force me to actually pay attention to it. Peeta hasn’t said a word since the show started. I stare into space, trying to block it all out. It usually works, but this time my attention is caught by footage I’ve seen before.

It’s Peeta. It’s an old clip, from the reaping. He’s standing next to Madge. Beside me on the couch, Peeta takes a deep, shaky breath.

“Peeta Mellark is one of the Capitol’s most beloved victors, and this year marks his 15th anniversary. Can you believe it’s already been 15 years since this handsome young man became a victor?” The audience in the Capitol studio cheers at Flickerman’s words. “We have dedicated a full hour of tonight’s show to Peeta Mellark, to celebrate the anniversary and to show that sometimes, a victor can come from the most unlikely of places. Being in my position, I’m not supposed to have any personal favorites among the tributes, but I have to confess that young Peeta caught my attention from the very beginning. Who can forget his interview?”

The audience cheers again. I look at Peeta. His jaw is clenched. “Did you know they were doing a special on you?” I ask him.

“No.”

How odd that they wouldn’t even tell him. I reluctantly turn my attention back to the TV, where they show footage from his interview. 16-year-old Peeta Mellark couldn’t possibly have any previous camera experience, but he’s a natural. He talks and laughs with Flickerman as if he’s been on TV all his life. They joke about Capitol showers and how Peeta smells of roses. I wonder how he did it? I’m sure I’d be scared stiff if it were me up there on stage, on live television. I’d make a complete fool out of myself.

Flickerman likes to talk about girlfriends and boyfriends, at least when the tributes are in the older age range and good-looking. Peeta, at 16, was both. When Flickerman asks him if he has a girlfriend, Peeta hesitates, then gives a somewhat unconvincing shake of his head. I remember that. Peeta was so popular in school. He was handsome, funny, kind, a wrestler, and had lots of friends. I knew a lot of girls liked him, too. I found it hard to believe he didn’t have a girlfriend.

Clearly Flickerman does, too. “Handsome lad like you,” Flickerman says. “There must be some special girl. Come on, what’s her name?”

Peeta sighs. “Well, there is this one girl. I’ve had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I’m pretty sure she didn’t know I was alive until the reaping.”

“Fuck,” Peeta mutters next to me. I look at him, raising an eyebrow. “Sorry,” he says quickly. “I just… I _really_ hate seeing this.”

I nod. It’s not hard to understand why. I almost miss Flickerman’s next question. “She have another fellow?”

“I don’t know, but a lot of boys like her,” young Peeta says. I remember this very well. Everyone was speculating about who the girl was. I didn’t really pay any attention to it myself, but it was hard to miss all the gossip, even for me. There weren’t really that many girls to choose from – a town girl who was both popular with the boys _and_ single? Most people seemed to think it was Delly Cartwright, but I always found that unlikely because she wasn’t that popular. Some even suggested Madge. The latter didn’t make any sense, though – if he were in love with Madge, how could he possibly ask her out if he won the Hunger Games? No, the girl he loved didn't go to the Capitol with him.

“So here’s what you do,” Flickerman says enthusiastically. “You win, you go home. She can’t turn you down then, eh?”

“I guess you’re right,” teenage Peeta says with an endearing, shy smile.

But whoever that mysterious girl was, she must’ve turned him down after he came home to 12.  I never saw him with a girl after he returned as a victor... Not that I had much time to look. Peeta didn’t go back to school, and when I wasn’t at school or in the woods, I was with Gale.

They air highlights from the 74th Hunger Games, starting with the usual massacre at the Cornucopia. It is no better or no worse than any other year. It takes only a minute or two for me to lose count of the dead. Nine? Ten?

The only Cornucopia murders I can really keep track of are the ones that stand out. Like the boy from 4, because the careers usually survive the Cornucopia. Then there is Peeta’s first kill. He gets into a fight with a male tribute over a large knife. I don’t know which district he came from, and asking Peeta about it right now is not an option. Peeta, being a wrestler, quickly gets the upper hand, and the boy ends up with the knife in his stomach. From the corner of my eye, I see that Peeta is scowling, his jaw still clenched. But he doesn’t look away from the TV.

The careers predictably secure the Cornucopia, the way they do almost every year. Only in the 74th Hunger Games, a boy from 12 is among them, which is highly unusual.

Young Peeta Mellark has a shallow cut on his forehead from his fistfight with the tribute he killed, causing blood to stream down his face. He presses a bandage against the cut as they all inspect the contents of the Cornucopia. It’s a small group, but everyone knows the future victor is probably among them. It’s Peeta from 12, both tributes from 1 and 2, the girl from 4 and, also surprisingly, the boy from 3.

I remember now. They needed the boy from 3 to reprogram the landmines.

Peeta stares, transfixed, at the image of the younger version of himself, who has just killed his first tribute. Then, abruptly, he gets up, murmuring something about having to go to the bathroom.

I force myself to continue to watch TV while he’s gone. What I see is confusing. This blond boy, with blood on his face and desperation in his eyes, is so young, but already a killer.

The boy with the bread. A career.

The two images don’t fit. I find it hard to combine them in one person. Is this really the same man I’ve gotten to know these last few months? The man who brought me a dress from the Capitol, and later kissed me passionately in the kitchen? The man who plays with my children and makes me cheese buns for my birthday?

Peeta’s in the bathroom for too long. I stand, ready to go check on him to see if he’s okay, when he finally returns. I immediately see that he’s… different. His eyes look glassy, and something about him just seems off.

Did he take some of the pills he’s hidden inside a pair of socks in his sock drawer? He probably thinks I don't know about them. Why else would he keep them in his sock drawer? I’ve only seen him drunk before, never high, but I know he’s taken drugs in the past, in the Capitol. Is he high now?

He must be. Dammit.

The careers always get a lot of screen time. Cato, an 18-year-old blond boy from 2, was the bookmakers’ favorite to win that year, and aside from Peeta, they focus on him quite often during the recap. He seems to get along well enough with Peeta. Cato is the natural leader of the group, but it’s clear that Peeta is also quite influential. When Peeta talks, the others listen, and they often follow his advice - even though _technically_ Cato is usually the one who makes the final decisions.

The cameras, however, catch all the things that Cato doesn’t. How Cato consistently underestimates Peeta. How Peeta overhears much more than Cato thinks he does. Cato is planning to keep Peeta close until the end, because he considers the strong baker’s son a favorable ally – although not as powerful as himself. That’s where he’s wrong. Cato may be both strong and skilled, but it quickly becomes clear that he’s not as smart as Peeta.

The camera also catches how Peeta sabotages the landmines that Hal, the boy from 3, rewired. As a result, Glimmer, the girl from 1, is killed as she unwittingly hops through the minefield.  Cato thinks Hal was responsible, and kills him in retaliation.

I look at Peeta out of the corner of my eye. The Hunger Games must have been important in shaping the Peeta that I know. No one can escape from something like that unscathed. But I still don’t quite comprehend what it must have been like for him. I think you have to have been in the arena to fully understand.

The careers work their way through the other tributes. Aside from Thresh, the male tribute from 11, it doesn’t seem like there are any other strong competitors out there.  Thresh is hiding in some high grass, only emerging when provoked, and only killing when necessary. Madge has teamed up with the girl from 11, Rue, and they are doing surprisingly well. Unlike most of the other teams, they find enough food to feed themselves. It is mainly thanks to Rue, but even though Madge is less skilled at finding food than her younger partner, she is more resourceful than I thought she would be. The two girls use the mockingjays to communicate with each other when they are searching for food or scouting separately, which is a stroke of genius. They find a cave, and they use it as a base for their food gathering and scouting.

That cave eventually becomes their downfall. The camera catches yet another thing that Cato doesn’t – that Peeta has seen Madge and Rue in the distance, and that he is trying to protect them by drawing the careers away. Unfortunately, the place where he thinks the girls are hiding is only the place where Rue and Madge want the careers to _think_ that they are hiding. Instead of leading the careers to the place where Rue and Madge have set up a trap for them, Peeta unknowingly – in a stroke of incredibly bad luck – leads the careers straight to the girls’ actual hiding place.

Madge and Rue aren’t spotted immediately, because they are waiting at the site of their trap. But Cato understands what he’s found, and they hide out near the cave to wait for the girls’ return. It takes hours, but eventually Madge and Rue do return. It’s hard to keep the tears away as I’m forced to watch this scene again. Peeta is still staring straight at the TV, his face not betraying any emotion.

At least the end is fast. Cato doesn’t consider Rue or Madge important enough to draw out their deaths. He kills Madge while Marvel, the boy from 1, kills Rue.

After the girls’ death, the recap goes directly to the next kill. But I know that something happened afterwards that I’ve never been able to forget. Something they have quite conveniently chosen not to show tonight.

After Rue and Madge were murdered, the careers were about to leave the site when Peeta said that he wanted to go back and check to see if the girls had any useful weapons on them. The others argued that they had all the supplies they needed in their pile by the Cornucopia, but Peeta reasoned that they might have gotten some sponsor gifts. The others just shrugged, so he went back. The hovercrafts had had time to pick up Madge’s body, but not Rue’s. When Peeta returned, the hovercraft retreated. Instead of looking for useful weapons or food, Peeta plucked a flower, closing Rue’s little fingers around it. I remember the tear that rolled down his cheek as he looked at Rue’s face. The youngest of all the tributes. A child. They were all children, of course, but it was impossible to forget Rue.

She reminded me so much of Prim.

But we don’t see that. Instead, the recap goes straight back to the action. Lux, the fox-like girl from 5, is like a shadow, too smart for the careers to get to her. She has stolen food from the career’s pile by the Cornucopia, but after the incident that killed Glimmer, the careers have started leaving a guard by the Cornucopia when they go to hunt down other tributes, because clearly, the landmines can’t be trusted. As a result, Lux is starving, and she’s getting desperate. She follows the careers – in this case, Cato and Peeta. They don’t even notice her. Lux is smart, but she’s out of luck. She’s too busy following the two boys to look closely at the ground. She steps in a hive of tracker jackers, and we see her die a terrible death. No one is officially credited with her kill. Cato and Peeta are smart enough not to follow the sounds of her terrible howls as she is stung repeatedly and soon dies, but I can see how young Peeta clenches his jaw, drying the sweat from his brow.

Of course, everyone knows that the tracker jacker hive wasn’t there by accident. Tracker jacker hives are up in trees, not down on the ground, and no one would be stupid enough to think that it accidentally had fallen down from a tree. No, this was the Gamemakers’ way of adding some action to the Games. I suppose they didn’t find Lux all that interesting anymore, after she couldn’t steal food from under the careers’ noses anymore. She would simply hide in the woods, without trying to kill anyone, and she was too smart to be caught by the careers. Where is the fun in that?

One by one, the few remaining competitors are killed. When Cato kills Thresh, what follows next is predictable: the careers turn on each other. Cato planned to kill Peeta. The audience knows, because we heard him discuss his plans with Clove. What Cato doesn’t know is that Peeta also overheard that conversation and as a result, he is prepared. Peeta slips away from Cato, planting a knife in Clove’s back in the process. Then he is gone, hiding in the woods.  As Clove bleeds out from her wound, Cato kills the rest of the careers.

Cato and Peeta are eventually forced together by mutts, which are chasing them to the Cornucopia. The Gamemakers probably wanted to end the Games with the showdown of the century.

The end is violent and painful to watch. Cato and Peeta are on top of the Cornucopia. The endgame is a fistfight between two strong, blond boys. Even though Cato is just as strong physically, Peeta the wrestler has the upper hand, using his experience from the ring to push Cato off the Cornucopia, down to the mutts.

I remember that night. It was a mandatory viewing, of course, and most people were out in the town square. No tribute from 12 had been among the final two since Haymitch Abernathy won more than two decades earlier. The Gamemakers decided that should Peeta win, showing all of 12 celebrating in the town square would be good for ratings. So we were all there, along with Peeta’s parents and brothers. We sat there for six full hours while we listened to Cato’s screams and howls until they were only whimpers. Through that impossibly long night, Peeta sat with his back against the cold metal of the Cornucopia, mostly with his eyes closed and his hands covering his ears as his body shivered.

I sat close to Gale that night in the square, hiding my face against his chest while he stroked my back. When I looked up at him, his face was hard, like a mask. There was hatred in his voice when he whispered terrible things in my ear about the Capitol that I hadn’t ever heard anyone say out loud before. Not even when we were outside the fence, alone in the forest, would the things he said about the Capitol be _that_ bad.

I shivered too, but not from the cold. I shivered out of fear that anyone would hear his whispers. I knew Gale could be executed immediately if the Peacekeepers found out.

When I’m brought back to reality, the sun at last rises over the arena. Cato is still alive, if only barely. Peeta, who for hours has been forced to listen to the sounds of Cato’s suffering in the darkness, gets up on unsteady feet. In the morning light, he looks at the tribute, his former ally, who now resembles a lump of flesh more than a human being. Yet Cato is still alive, the mutts continuing to tear at his body. The mutts have spared his eyes, and the gazes of the two boys lock. Cato opens his mouth, or perhaps more accurately the hole which used to be his mouth, and it sounds like he tries to say the word “please”, but it’s hard to say. Peeta draws his knife, and without hesitation, he throws it, hitting Cato straight in the throat.

Finally, it’s over. Peeta, the new victor from 12, the first in 24 years, blinks against the morning sun. He doesn’t look happy or triumphant, he simply looks dazed.

Peeta seems to relax a bit more on the couch beside me as they move from the 74th Hunger Games to selected highlights of other Games. They focus mainly on the Capitol favorites, the ones they love the most. Finnick Odair with his trident is, of course, one of them. It’s strange to see him on TV now that I’ve actually met him. And Cashmere – she looks so young. Even covered in blood, badly injured after the final fight, I’m surprised to see an innocence in her eyes that she doesn’t have anymore. Diamond, the girl who won last year, gets her share of attention, too.

We sit together for hours, Peeta and I, without a word. When the show is over, I’m emotionally drained.

Peeta stares at the TV screen, which is now filled with some kind of commercial for a useless Capitol product that will never come to 12. “I’m sorry, Katniss,” he suddenly says, and there is something weird about his voice. It’s distant, as if he’s not really present. When his eyes meet mine, his pupils are too small.

“About what?” I ask him.

“I’m sorry for being such a fucking coward,” he answers.

“What makes you think you’re a coward?” I can think of a lot of adjectives to describe the Peeta Mellark I just saw win the 74th Hunger Games, but coward is not one of them.

“Madge.”

Not Madge again. I don’t want to think about Madge. “I’m not sure why you keep saying you killed her,” I say slowly. “You were trying to _protect_ her, to draw the careers away from her and Rue. It’s not your fault it turned out the way it did. It was just… bad luck.” I pause. “You know Madge and Rue never stood a chance, right?” It’s painful, but it needs to be said.

“I know. But it doesn’t… doesn’t help. I’ll always be responsible for their deaths. Their blood can never be washed off of my hands.” His fingers close around a glass of water, but he doesn’t drink.

I don’t answer. I look down.

“Katniss, look at me.” When I don’t immediately react, he repeats himself, his voice sharp now. " _Look_ at me! I was credited with four kills, Katniss. You’ve seen them all. Add Hal, Madge and Rue to that count, and maybe Lux, too. Do you still think that I’m not a murderer?”

My answer is an almost whispered “yes,” but it’s not as immediate as it should’ve been. I know he notices my slight hesitation by the way his shoulders slump and the way he looks down, refusing to meet my eyes.

He’s slipping away from me again, but this time I won’t let him. I need to do something to bring him back to me, so I do. I kneel on the couch, lean towards him, and turn his head towards me. The kiss I press against his lips is soft at first, but I quickly I deepen it. He relaxes in my arms and I take that as my cue. I move to straddle him and, through our clothes, I feel him grow hard underneath me.

I know we shouldn’t. Not like this, not our first time. Not when he has that hazy, distant look in his eyes. Not when his speech is slightly slurred, when he’s hurting so much. When we said we’d go slow.

But we’ve been tip-toeing around this for so long. The heat flaring in my belly and his ragged breath tell me there’s no stopping this, not anymore. He runs his hands up my thighs, under my summer dress. I feel him tug on the fabric as I lift my arms, allowing him to undress me.

I struggle with Peeta's t-shirt while he concentrates on my bra. It’s old and worn, like everything I own, and I wish I’d had something new and sexier for him. With laces, perhaps, like the women in the Capitol. Peeta seems mostly interested in getting the bra _off_ , though, and he expertly unhooks it and throws it on the floor without even giving it a second glance. He holds me close, pressing our bare chests together as he moves us. Moments later, I’m underneath him with my back pressed into the cushions of the couch. Peeta's hands move down to the hem of my panties, and he pushes them down over my hips. I don’t hesitate, either. His jeans and boxers are next, both gone in the flurry of clothes being thrown all over the living room.

I relish the feel of him, hot and hard, against my thigh. His hands seem to be everywhere, all at once. My back, my belly, my breasts, my thighs. Everywhere but where I want them to be the most. But his cock is there, grinding against me, where wetness is building rapidly.

He sits up, pulling me up with him. He reaches behind my back with both of his hands and unbraids my hair. I don’t understand why he’d do this _now_ , even as his cock pulses against the skin of my belly, but I let him. He combs his fingers through my thick, black hair, and then tangles both of his hands into the tresses near the base of my neck, securing me.

Then I understand.

Peeta likes to be in control.

He holds me in place by my hair as he deepens the kiss and lowers me back down on the couch. It’s strangely exciting to be held, controlled, like this by him. My hands roam over his back down to his ass, and I’m rewarded with a gasp and a shudder that vibrate through his body.

Peeta's hand finally slides down between my legs. I open eagerly for him, moaning into his mouth as his fingers find my slick heat. He pulls away and looks into my eyes. We both breathe heavily as his fingertips slowly explore me.

“You’re so wet,” he groans, and I’m unable to answer. He catches my clit between his thumb and index finger, pressing lightly but firmly. I muffle my scream against his shoulder. Whatever I have fantasized about doing to Peeta - touching him, tasting him, feeling him writhe under me - I’m unable to do any of it now. My world quickly contracts until all that exists are his fingers, gliding and touching. When he slips a thick finger inside of me, all I can do is whimper, “Please." I don’t even know what I’m begging for anymore.

Too soon, his finger is gone and I groan in frustration. I watch as he grabs his cock with his right hand, and for the first time I get a good look at what has been pressed up against me. My breath hitches. He’s hard and long and thick around. I want to touch him, to taste him, but there is no time as he slides the head of his cock over my clit, again and again, using my desire as lubrication. Already, I’m close to the edge. Just when I think I can’t stand it any longer, he slides the head of his cock further down, through my folds, teasing my opening.

"What do you want?” he whispers in my ear and he tugs on my hair.

“Inside me..."

The corners of his lips turn up ever so slightly, so mischievously. There is no hesitation. He slides into me and quickly buries himself to the hilt. My fingernails dig into his shoulders as I stifle my gasp against his neck. It’s been so long, and he’s big. His first few thrusts are gentle, but then he quickly builds up speed. Soon, it’s hard and it’s fast. It’s not quite what I expected, this first time, but looking up at his face, at the closed concentration I see there, I know that this is just what he needs right now. I can feel myself drawing closer to the brink with every stroke, and my hips move to meet his, matching his furious pace.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he mumbles. He face twists in pleasure and I watch him, learning his expressions, seeing how he bites his bottom lip as he gets closer, and relaxes as he slows his pace. He doesn't want this to be over so soon.

I want him to use me, to find peace and pleasure in my body. But the thought of him filling me serves as a reminder, too. And tempting as it is, I know it can't happen. “You need to… pull out,” I manage to say in between gasps. My hands have found his hips, encouraging him to go faster. “When you…” He snaps his hips against mine, going even deeper, and I struggle to complete my sentence. His hand tugs on my hair again, pulling me in for a deep, crushing kiss.

I tear my mouth away from his. I’m close. Dammit, I’m so close. But this is too important, I need to focus. “You can’t come inside of me,” I tell him.

Something passes over his face just then, something I can’t identify. It's not ideal, but it’s the only option that we have. I’m not quite sure how people in the Town deal with this, not to mention what they do in the Capitol.

He nods, not missing a stroke. “Okay.”

He tilts my hips, finding a new angle. With every stroke, he hits a spot inside me that I didn’t even know existed. I'm close. So close.  “I’m going to..."

And then I do. I come hard around him. My eyes are shut and I'm high on him. He speeds up, going impossibly hard and deep. Then, abruptly, he pulls out of me, and I feel him spill on my belly.  He collapses on top of me, with no regard for the hot fluid between us. He buries his face in my hair, which is now tangled, sweaty and everywhere. We are both panting, both shaking with aftershocks.

He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I as we both try to catch our breath. But his weight on top of me soon grows uncomfortable and I squirm underneath him. He sits up. His skin is flushed, his eyes heavy-lidded. He looks exhausted. The TV is still blasting in the background.

I look down at the mess we’ve made. “I guess we should clean up,” I say with a small smile, trying to lighten the mood. I’ve thought about this so many times, yet the reality of it now, after, isn’t quite what I’d thought it would be. What happens now? What does he expect?

Peeta quickly dries off the worst of the mess on our bellies with his t-shirt. Then... he hugs me. We hold each other, gently dragging our fingertips across our still exposed skin. We don't say anything for a long time.

Peeta's breath quickens and when I meet his eyes, he's opening and closing his mouth, searching for words. I raise my eyebrows, encouraging him to speak. “Will you sleep in my bed?” he asks quietly.

I nod my head yes. Ivy’s asleep. If she wakes up during the night, I’ll hear her through the wall. Besides, it’s about time she moved into her own room now anyway. She’ll be alright. “Of course,” I whisper.

We walk up the stairs together, leaving our clothes on the living room floor. He leads me to his bed, holding the sheets up for me, encouraging me under them. He briefly goes to the bathroom; I hear the water running in the sink before he joins me. I try to switch off the light on the nightstand, but he stops me. “Leave it on,” he says. Something about the look on his face, the tightness in his jaw makes me simply nod and say okay, even though I find his request odd.

His arms close around me, his knees fitting perfectly behind mine. Within minutes, he’s fallen asleep.

Despite my own exhaustion and the hormones, not to mention Peeta’s warm body next to mine, I can’t sleep.

I think about 16-year-old Peeta, his face covered in blood. About Rue’s hands and the flower.

I think about Posy.

I think about all of the parents who are lying in the darkness now, sleepless, fearing for the lives of their children. Five years from now, that’s going to be me.

But tonight... I'm here. We're here, in the afterglow of our first time together. It's a bittersweet feeling.

The Peeta I just slept with was upset and drugged. This was probably a mistake. He’s leaving in the morning. He’s going to the Capitol. Behind me, Peeta tightens his grip around my waist and mumbles something in his sleep. His slow, even breathing is soothing.

Helped by his tightened grip on me, my body finally calms. Minutes later, sleep claims me as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so… I think I deserve a comment after this chapter. lol
> 
> The title of the next chapter is "Explode II". That's where you're going to have to trust me. This story is endgame Everlark, but it's going to be a bumpy ride.


	15. Explode II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve warned you before, several times, so I’m going to keep it brief. This chapter was difficult to write, I think it was difficult to beta, and I suspect it will also be difficult for you to read. I need you to trust me – this fic IS endgame Everlark, but as I said before, it’s going to be a rocky road, and this chapter is where Katniss and Peeta reach an all-time low. 
> 
> If you can’t handle it – turn back now.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Drug abuse. Dubious consent. 
> 
> A special thank you to Lbug84 and Chelzie!

**Peeta's POV**

 

Even after I have opened my eyes, I see their faces. I gasp for breath, my heart still racing in my chest.

But Katniss is here, sleeping in my arms. I cling to her, and as I hold her tighter, the remains of Cato’s face being torn apart by  mutts somewhat retreats into the background... Because _she’s_ here.

She's naked, and her rounded breast is pressed against my lower arm. I can feel how her chest moves up and down, slowly and rhythmically. She is warm, small, and soft. So soft. I lie behind her, our bodies are so close as I bury my nose in her hair.  I breathe in her scent as I revel in her heat. My index finger trails along her side. Her skin is smooth and unblemished.

I shift my body, and when I do, she rolls onto her back. She stirs, but she doesn’t wake. My mouth finds hers in a kiss, and I feel her smiling against me. My tongue meets her closed teeth, and I move my lips against hers, wanting her to open for me. She seems to hesitate at first, but then her tongue meets mine, and she sighs into my mouth.

I move to lie on top of her, my weight pressing her body into the mattress as we kiss. Her hands roam over my shoulders and she tangles her fingers in my hair. A groan escapes from her throat as I press my groin against her and she arches her back, breaking the kiss.

She gasps for breath, and for the first time, her eyes open. They are smoky. Silvery, almost metallic. Sleepy. She stares at me, frowning. “Peeta…” she says, but no more words come.

I rest my weight on my elbows and look down between us. She’s not like the Capitol women. Where they are smooth, she has hair. I reach my hand down to touch it, feeling the coarse curls. I love how it feels, so different from the softer hair on her head. I part her thighs with my knee and I can smell her. Her scent is heady. I slide down her body and settle between her legs. I hold her open with my hands and breathe deeply. She’s resting her weight on her elbows, the  upper half of her body lifted up from the mattress as she looks down at me. Her eyes meet mine for a moment before my tongue first touches her. I run the tip of my tongue through her folds, savoring her taste, and her body tenses. I look up briefly and find that she’s still staring at me, her eyes wide, pupils huge. Her mouth is half open. I hold her gaze as my finger trails circles over her clit. I smile to myself as she closes her eyes and her head falls back.

I push two fingers into her and bring my mouth back to her. I want to find that spot, the one that drives her wild. Her hips buck up, but I pin her down on the bed with a hand over her belly. I look up, my tongue never leaving her body, but I can’t see her face now. All I can see over the little patch of hair as my tongue moves against her are her breasts, the underside of her chin and jaw – and of course her hair, covering the pillow as she grinds the back of her head against it. There’s a shiny mark on her skin - a tattoo of a white climbing rose.  It winds from her shoulder, over her breast, crossing over her belly and going down to the curve of her hip.

My cock is throbbing insistently. I’m so close to coming already. I try to slow my breathing and take control, but it’s hard to focus.

I move up from between her legs, my chin wet from her arousal. Her skin is flushed, her pupils huge, her blonde hair is everywhere on the pillow. Blonde? I blink, twice. No. I exhale in relief. Her hair is dark, wild, and tangled. With a groan of my own, I push her thigh up against her body and I kiss her neck. The shiny floral design is darker now, almost purple, like a bruise. With one forceful movement of my hips, I enter her. She gasps, and arches under me again. She's hot and tight and wet. We are a beautiful mess of limbs and sweaty skin.

I fuck her slowly at first, but I quickly pick up speed. My breath is short and heavy. She moans, louder when I find the right angle, going deeper. I inhale sharply and turn my head away. I smell peaches. I fucking hate peaches.

I bend, finding a spot just below the mark on her neck, and bite down on her. Hard. These Capitol bitches always like to have something to show to their friends the next morning.

She cries out under me, her body suddenly stiff and tense.  Her hands are on my back, and she draws her fingernails over my skin. It hurts, but in a delicious way. My lips find hers again in another crushing kiss. I’m so close, I’m fucking her so hard. She gasps and writhes underneath me. I can’t keep my eyes open anymore, so I close them as I feel myself getting closer with each thrust of my hips. My world has contracted - all I feel is her wet pussy pulsating around my cock and the pressure that’s building deep inside me. I want to hold on for just a little bit longer, but I feel the familiar tingling and I know it’s too late. I come, deep inside of her.

I collapse on top of her, exhausted. Struggling to catch my breath, I attempt to focus my gaze. I'm holding her wrists above her head with one of my hands. I don't remember doing that. I release my hold on her immediately.

My cock is still twitching inside of her in the aftermath of my orgasm. I take a deep, shuddering breath and pull out of her. I don’t know how I find the strength to do so, but I roll off her.

She doesn’t move. She’s staring up at the ceiling. Finally, she turns her head to look at me. Her eyes are glassy, and her lips are swollen and slightly parted. I can’t read her expression. I try to get up. I’m not quite sure why, but my legs don’t seem to be able to carry me, so I sit down on the edge of the bed. My eyes drift down her unmoving body. The shiny tattoos are gone. Her olive skin is smooth and even, except where her neck meets her shoulder. There are a few long, red scratch marks on her upper body and thighs as well. When she catches me staring, she pulls the sheet up, covering her body.

I turn away and finally manage to get to my feet. I make my way into the bathroom and look at my reflection in the mirror. My skin is pale and grayish in the cold artificial light. My pupils are contracted. Fuck, it must be the drugs. I shake my head, trying to clear it. I turn around in front of the mirror and inspect my body. There are scratch marks along my back. There are four  on each side, perfectly parallel, going from one of my shoulder blades and down towards the small of my back, where they meet in a V.

I force myself to breathe slowly as I try to make sense of what just happened.

Katniss doesn’t have any tattoos.

I don’t hear a sound from the bedroom. Has she fallen asleep? No, I don’t think she would. She was calm, but perfectly alert. But, she didn’t say anything.

I take a few steps back, until my back hits the wall. I slowly slide down until I land on the floor.

After a while, I can’t say how long, I hear the door to my bedroom open. I don’t hear her footsteps, because she’s a huntress, but I know that she must be walking down the hallway. Moments later, I hear the shower in the other bathroom.

I throw on some clothes and go downstairs. It’s very early in the morning, only just starting to get light. From the corner of my eye, I see our clothes from last night on the living room floor.

It’s reaping day, and I can’t stay in this house any longer.

The door to Haymitch’s house is wide open, and I go inside. He’s passed out on the kitchen floor. On the table are a collection of bottles. Most of them are empty, but two are almost full. Without hesitation, I take them and leave the house with Haymitch still snoring on the floor.

I start walking to the Hall of Justice. I might as well be early today. This afternoon I’ll be on the train, away from here. Away from _her._ I’m poison for her. Yes, it’s for the best.

 


	16. “Well, there is this one girl.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your feedback on chapter 15. I was really nervous before I posted it, because if I’d gotten the scene wrong, it would’ve ruined the entire story. It’s been interesting to see how differently you interpreted chapter 15. I had actually expected your interpretations to vary, as we still don’t really know what happened. We saw it all through Peeta’s eyes, and he was deeply traumatized, half asleep, plus he had taken drugs. He was in no state to pick up Katniss’s signals, the way he normally would.
> 
> So what really happened? You’re about to find out. Well, sort of, at least. Here’s chapter 16, which tells the story of the morning after, the reaping of the 89th Hunger Games – and how Katniss gets through the summer that Peeta spends in the Capitol.
> 
> One small note on the reaping. In the book, Katniss says that: “Twelve- through eighteen-year-olds are herded into roped areas marked off by ages, the oldest in the front, the young ones, like Prim, toward the back." In the movie, however, it looks like Prim is in the front, and Katniss is several rows behind her. I have chosen to go with the latter – with the 12-year-olds in the front, and the 18-year-olds in the back. 
> 
> Thank you so much to my amazing team – Lbug84 for betaing and holding my hand, and Chelzie for prereading.

**Katniss’s POV**

Real or not real?

Peeta’s in the bathroom. He’s been in there a long time now, but I don’t hear a sound.

When I move to get out of his bed, I wince. I’m sore. And as I get up, his seed runs out of me.

Oh, no.

Up until this moment, it hasn't seemed real. It's been like being somewhere in between being awake and being asleep. But the harsh reality of the sticky insides of my thighs makes my mind suddenly become clear.

This is real.

With a pounding heart, I rush to my own bathroom. I know it’s too late, but I try to clean up anyway, turning up the heat so the water is almost scalding my skin. _Think, Katniss. When was your last period?_ As I do the math in my head, I close my eyes.

After I get out of the shower, I look at myself in the mirror. My eyes are huge, and there is only a thin ring of gray surrounding my fully dilated pupils. My skin looks so pale in the harsh overhead light. There are scratch marks, long and red, on my upper body and my thighs. On my neck is a bruise that I think is from what we did on the couch. If I were still in school, I suppose I would call it a hickey. And a bit lower… is a bite mark. His teeth didn’t break my skin, but they must have been close, because I can see impressions from each individual tooth. I know the bruising will look a lot worse in the morning. It’s going to take weeks for this to heal.

Peeta bit me. He fucking _bit_ me! 

I find some old flannel pajamas in the drawer, so I dress and quietly get into my own bed.

A while later I hear his steps in the hallway, passing my door without pausing. Then he walks downstairs, and I hear the front door slam shut. His footsteps echo on the gravel outside.

I don’t sleep… and Peeta does not return.

 

* * *

 

It’s Reaping Day, and as much as I’d like to avoid the spectacle, I know I can’t.

I look at my own reflection in the mirror critically. The lack of sleep from last night shows, and there’s not much I can do about that either. I haven’t braided my hair. I always braid my hair, and though it’s going to be far too hot to comfortably wear it loose today, I don’t have any choice. Everyone in 12 is going to be in the square for the reaping, and I can’t show the gossiping housewives the hickey that Peeta gave me last night. It would only confirm what they’ve thought about me all along: that I’m just another Seam slut, that I'm Peeta Mellark’s whore.

The bite mark is thankfully a little bit lower on my neck, and I’ve been able to just about cover it up with the high neckline of my light pink dress. The mark does look even worse than it did last night. It’s bluish and purple. Proof that what happened yesterday was indeed real.

I don’t know what this means. I have no idea what _any_ of this means. 

I wrap Ivy on my chest – it would be more comfortable to wear her on my back for such a prolonged period of time, but having her on my chest means I can embrace her. I realize it’s more for my comfort than it is for hers. Thankfully she’s still too young to understand what’s going on, but I think I’ll need that today.

Arrow is dressed in his best clothes – in fact, they are his only good clothes. I realize now that he’s outgrown them, but it’s too late. His trousers are too short. He's grown a lot these last few months. I can afford to buy him new clothes now, but I haven't. I consider heading over to the tailor after the reaping, but I doubt he'll be open today. Besides, spending money today would only remind me of why I have money to spend.

Peeta.

What am I going to do when he comes back? What if I get pregnant?

I shake my head, trying to chase the thoughts away. I can't deal with this. Not today, of all days.

I look at my son, at his Seam gray eyes and his black hair. He looks so much like his father, it brings tears to my eyes. “Why are you sad, Mama?” he asks.

“It’s nothing, sweetie,” I assure him, but I can tell he doesn’t believe me.

Arrow is seven now. In five years, he’ll be eligible for the reaping. I won’t be able to protect him anymore.

The heat is sweltering, and I was too distracted this morning to remember to bring a bottle of water. I was a mess. The children picked up on my tension immediately, and there was a lot of crying and whining before we were all ready to go. The lack of sleep doesn’t help, and by the time we get to the town square, I feel a headache coming on. I find Prim in the crowd, near the back. The parents of the older children stand in the front, near the pens, where the children are separated by age and sex. I still remember what it felt like to stand there, waiting for my name to be called. Or Gale's name, or Prim's.

Hazelle is one of the many anguished parents. My eyes are immediately drawn to where she is standing in the front row, to the right of where Prim and I are, where parts of her face are still visible. She looks around, scanning the crowd behind her, quite possibly looking for me. I quickly avert my gaze. I feel as if everyone can see what happened last night. For the first time, I slept with a man who wasn’t my husband – who wasn’t Hazelle’s son. What’s more, _I_ initiated it. I straddled Peeta. I tore his clothes off, moaned under him, and I came hard around him. I fell asleep in his bed, in his arms, naked.

But the second time… I didn't initiate that.

“Are you okay?” Prim asks me. She looks worried. She holds the hands of Thomas and Ridge, making sure they don’t get lost in the crowd. They are both too young to understand exactly what’s going on, but they are unusually quiet, so they must know that something is wrong.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Prim doesn’t look like she believes me. “Do you have some water?” Prim nods, and hands me a bottle of water. I feel somewhat better after taking a few sips.

“Where is Aunt Posy?” Arrow asks me.

“Over there,” I answer, nodding in the direction of the 18-year-old girls. You start in the front, and  every year, you are moved back. The 18-year-olds are near their parents. Only a few yards separate Posy from us. One more hour, and the 18-year-olds can leave the square to fully join the adult society. It may be a starving, suffering society, but at least they can starve and suffer in safety.

I remember what it was like to stand there, bitterly regretting every single tesserae I’d ever taken out. Knowing how little was separating me from a future with Gale - or from being hunted like an animal in the Hunger Games. Effie Trinket’s perfectly manicured hand chose my fate.

She chose some other girl’s slip of paper instead.

I chuckle at the irony. Gale died in the mines. Even the safety of our starvation is a carefully crafted illusion.

There are many slips of paper in the girls’ bowl – even with the tesserae, the odds are in Posy’s favor. But even if they are, if she survives her last reaping, I know Hazelle’s anguish won’t be over. Her oldest grandchild will be eligible for his first reaping in two years. And then they will keep becoming eligible, one by one.

It never ends.

Posy is pale, but calm. Her black hair is intricately braided. I recognize the light blue dress as Prim’s; she wore it for her last few reapings.

Effie Trinket is on stage. Her hair is pink this year. Again. She seems to have stagnated somewhat as of late. She was so elated for the first few years after Peeta won, but I guess she realizes that the height of her career as an escort is behind her. She won't get another victor. She has had her opportunity to shine, and still didn’t get promoted to a better district. Effie is stuck with 12, and by now she seems to have resigned herself to her fate.

The only living victors of District 12, Peeta and Haymitch, are introduced and walk onto the stage. Haymitch is obviously drunk, that’s hardly a surprise. But the fact that Peeta appears to be just as drunk as his former mentor is. I force myself to keep my face neutral and not to betray any emotion. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Prim is looking at me.

Peeta’s eyes are fixed on the platform in front of his feet.  Not once does he lift his gaze to look at the crowd. During a commercial break, when we all know the people in the Capitol can’t see us anymore and everyone relaxes a bit, he even openly drinks what must be white liquor from a bottle he had hidden in his pocket. He’s swaying slightly afterwards. He must be wasted.

Beside me, Prim takes a deep breath. She opens her mouth to whisper something to me, but I shoot her a warning look. This is neither the time nor the place. I’m very much aware of all the eyes that are on me. Some look at me out of the corner of their eye, others don’t bother to hide their stares. I know what they all see when the look at me.

It seems that even without any visible markings, I've become the victor’s whore.

Prim nods in understanding and looks up at the stage again. “Ladies first!” I stare at Posy’s braid as she stands perfectly still, watching Effie Trinket’s pale fingers pick a slip of paper. Please, please, please, please…

“Donia Deen.”

Impulsively, I reach out my right arm and embrace Prim, hiding my face against her neck until Ivy starts to object. Tears are burning in my eyes. “Posy’s okay,” I whisper.

“Yes,” Prim agrees, her voice very low. I don’t know Donia Deen, and I never will. I’m truly sorry for her parents. I hear someone’s anguished cry, a woman, and I know it’s her mother. I feel for her, I do. But right now, all I can think is one selfish thought: It’s not Posy.

Predictably, Donia is from the Seam. Her hair is black, like mine, her skin a dark shade of olive. She comes from the second pen from the back, so she must be 17. In my confusion and relief, I don’t catch the name of the boy, but he’s Seam, too, and he must be younger than Donia. 13 or 14, perhaps. The two tributes stand there on stage, on either side of Effie Trinket. Donia is crying, and the boy looks terrified. They are both underfed. I know the face of chronic starvation when I see it.

But Posy is safe. Posy will _live_. In the fall, she will get to marry her miner. I hope she doesn't lose him the same way so many miners’ wives have become widows.

After the reaping ceremony is finally over, I am successful in avoiding Hazelle and the rest of the Hawthornes. Everything is so chaotic in the square, so slipping away unnoticed is easy. Prim insists on following me home, claiming I don’t look well. I reluctantly agree. When we come back to the Victor’s Village, I’m exhausted. The children are playing in the shade of the trees in the garden. Prim gets me a glass of water and an apple, and I gratefully accept. I was too upset to eat anything this morning, and I’m starting to feel the effects of that now. My head is spinning.

“What’s wrong?” Prim asks. I keep my eyes fixed on the playing children. Ivy is standing almost steadily, holding Arrow’s hand as the twins run in circles around them. She'll walk soon. She’ll be 1 in less than two weeks. Soon my baby won’t be a baby anymore.

The children are within earshot. I keep my voice neutral. “Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Prim keeps her voice neutral, too.

As I lean over to set the empty glass down on the porch, my hair shifts. Prim’s eyes immediately zoom in on the mark Peeta left on my neck last night, on the couch. She is a healer, after all. She is trained to locate injuries and blemishes, though I'm pretty sure she was inspecting me. She reaches out her hand to push my hair out of the way, getting a better look. She raises an eyebrow. “Katniss…?”

I can barely breathe.

Prim blinks quickly a few times. “A… hickey?” She leans closer, her voice so low I can barely hear her next question. “Katniss, is there something you want to tell me?” Under different circumstances, I think she might have asked me that question with a wry smile on her lips. But not today.

I’m not sure if I should tell her – but I desperately need to talk to someone. Perhaps Prim can help me sort out the chaos in my head, my confusion. I whisper to her. “We were watching the mandatory viewing last night. Peeta got really upset, and I… didn’t know what to do. One thing led to another, and we....” I’m unable to say the words, I feel like a teenager. I clear my throat. “On the couch.”

Prim looks skeptically at me. “Is that really the reason why you’ve been so upset all day? Because frankly, I don’t see what’s so shocking about some couch sex.”

I roll my eyes. “Prim!” Sometimes it’s hard to remember that my sister is, in fact, an adult. A married woman, a mother. I clear my throat. “Peeta and I hadn’t… been together before.”

“You hadn’t?” Prim looks genuinely surprised now.

I shake my head. “No. And he'd taken something. Some kind of Capitol drug.”

“You knew that he had taken drugs?” I nod. “And you still had sex with him?” I hesitantly nod again. “Okay. Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever heard… but okay.” She pauses, narrowing her eyes as they focus on my neck again. “But that’s not all that happened, is it?” Her fingers brush very lightly over my skin, along the neckline of my dress. Dammit. I glance down at her fingers, and see that the dress, which only barely covered the bite mark in the first place, has slipped down a little bit. Prim hooks her fingers under the fabric and pulls it down gently, exposing the blue and reddish bruised skin. She gasps and looks up at me, her eyes dark.

“We went to bed together,” I whisper, my voice even lower now. “We fell asleep, but at some point during the night, Peeta woke me… he didn’t really seem like himself. I’m not sure if he was half asleep too, or if it was the drugs, but I’m not even sure if he knew it was _me_ when we… when he….”

 “Was he rough with you?” Hesitatingly, I nod again. “Rougher than you wanted him to be?”

“Prim…”

“I’m a healer, Katniss. I see a lot, believe me. Some people actually like things to be a bit rough in bed. You never said anything about what things were like between you and Gale, but I never pictured you the kind of person who got off on pain.” I pale, because I’m actually not sure. I may not have asked for it, but my body certainly reacted to it. Didn’t it?

I shake my head vigorously.

Prim nods. “I thought not. She leans closer to me, her voice very low so the children can’t hear. “Katniss, did you say no?”

I honestly have no idea what to answer. “I didn’t _exactly_ say no. But I’m not sure if… It was like a dream, sort of. It was okay at first. But then he bit me.” I swallow deeply. “He came inside of me.”

I very rarely see my soft-spoken, well-mannered little sister angry, but now she is. “He has no right to treat you like that,” she hisses. “When he comes home to 12, I’m going to…”

I tighten my grip on her hand. “Stop it. Okay?” It’s not as if there is anything she can do, anyway. My free hand goes nervously up to my hair, wanting to play with the braid which isn’t there. “Peeta wasn’t himself last night. Something was wrong. I don’t know if it was the drugs, or if it was knowing that he was going back to the Capitol, but…” I shudder. "He was different." I know how much he hates going to the Capitol. Although I don’t quite know why. “It’s as if he was someone else.”

“I can’t believe you’re defending him, Katniss! Peeta used you, he fucking _bit_ you, and you’re making _excuses_ for him?”

I can’t believe it, either. I don’t answer. I just look down at my hands.

“What if you get pregnant?”

“Then I have a big problem,” I chuckle, though it’s not really funny.

Prim sighs heavily. “If you do, I have something. Herbs. But they can be dangerous.”

I know they are. I’ve seen women die from them. But I’ve seen even more women die on my mother’s kitchen table, bleeding to death or burning up from fever from the damage caused by knitting needles or other barbaric and forbidden instruments.

“It will be okay. It will.”

I’m not sure if I believe my own words, but they are the only comfort I’ve got. Prim takes my hand, and we sit in silence, watching our children play on the grass.

 

* * *

 

The days pass so slowly. I keep trying to read my body’s signals to no avail. My breasts are tender, aren’t they? Am I cramping? Do I feel more tired than usual? Has my appetite changed? Is there any nausea? But whatever I do, whatever symptoms I imagine that I may or may not have, I realize that they could all mean either thing. They could mean I’m pregnant - or that my period is coming. Or they could simply mean that I’m stressed, exhausted and afraid, reading far too much into my body’s signals, signals that may very well be all in my head.

I see Peeta on TV sometimes, but he seems to get considerably less screen time than he has gotten in the last few years. The mandatory viewings are torture, even worse than usual. I want to see him, and I don’t want to see him. And when I do see him, I’m torn between being angry with him and worrying about him.

The house seems strangely empty without Peeta. School’s out for the summer, and Arrow is home every day. I’m glad he is, but at the same time, it makes it harder to hide from him that something is wrong. Frankly, I don’t think I succeed.

I still don’t know what happened. Peeta and I both knew where we were heading. That our relationship was about to become physical had been in the air for weeks, perhaps even longer, but I never thought it would happen quite like _that_. The Peeta Mellark that I know – well, that I _thought_ I knew, anyway – is more considerate and caring than that, even if I sometimes think he doesn’t even realize it himself. But the man I was in bed with that night? He wasn’t caring or considerate. He was dark and desperate. He was different.

He was someone else.

 

* * *

 

I’m watching the compulsory recap of the day’s events in the arena when I’m startled by the doorbell. We never get visitors at this time of the night – well, except Haymitch, but he’s in the Capitol. I look through the peep-hole, and my heart sinks when I see who it is.

Cray.

I’m intensely relieved to see that Darius is with him.  Back when I was still hunting, Darius used to be one of my regular customers. I think I can trust him. But even if Darius hadn’t been here, I’d have no choice but to open the door. 

“Mrs. Hawthorne,” Cray says. “Good evening. Mind if we come inside for a minute?”

Wordlessly, I let them both inside. Cray goes straight to the living room. He has clearly been here before. He is followed by Darius, who nods and smiles at me behind his boss’s back. 

Cray finds that the TV is on. He also finds my cup of tea, still hot, on the table. Clearly, I’ve been a good Panem citizen. I can’t tell whether it’s a disappointment to him or not. Was Cray hoping to bust me? It suddenly hits me just how vulnerable I am here, alone in the house. In fact, I’m alone in the entire Victors’ Village, responsible for two sleeping children.

My eyes dart over to Darius. “It’s quite a year,” Darius says, nodding to the TV. “Isn’t it?”

I somehow manage to murmur a response. “Yes. It is.”

“Citizen compliance with mandatory viewings is subject to increased scrutiny,” Cray says. “Capitol orders.”

“Well, we always comply with Capitol orders in this house,” I find myself saying.

“Glad to hear it, Mrs. Hawthorne.” Cray walks closer to me. I have to fight the urge to take a step back when he’s within arm’s reach of me. “How are you doing? Here in the Victors’ Village?” He emphasizes the word “victor.”

“Fine,” I stammer. “We're all doing fine.”

“I never thought I’d live to see the day,” he chuckles. “Fierce, independent Katniss Everdeen became a victor’s whore. Not sure if it’s a step up or a step down from being married to a miner.”

“Why don’t we ask Mr. Mellark what he thinks about it?” My voice is surprisingly steady. I meet his eyes. They are pale blue, and notoriously hard to read, but I know those eyes followed me for years. I suppose they never stopped.

My reply, which is in effect a threat and is clearly not missed on him, seems to startle Cray, but only for a second. It's effective, though. It stirs the proper feelings of caution, and reminds him that I "belong" to one of the only two men in 12 with more pull in the Capitol that he has. He curls his lips up into what he probably thinks is a smile, but looks more like a sneer.

“Well, everything seems to be in order here. Goodnight, Mrs. Hawthorne. I hope you enjoy the rest of the Hunger Games.”

“I’m sure I will,” I answer, following them to the door.

“Goodbye, Mrs. Hawthorne,” Darius says. It’s the first time he’s called me anything but Katniss – but of course, it’s also the first time we have met in the presence of Cray. Darius is the last to leave the house, and he shakes my hand. Darius is actually a funny guy. I remember once when I was 15, he wanted to trade one of my rabbits for a kiss. It was obviously just a joke, and I laughed it off, as did he. I didn’t realize why Gale was scowling at the peacekeeper as he talked about redheads being the best kissers. I only understood why when Gale reluctantly told me, many months later, that that’s when he realized that his feelings for me went beyond friendship.

“Take care,” Darius says in a voice that is too low for Cray to hear.

As I hear their footsteps disappearing down the road, I sink down to the floor, my back resting against the door. I breathe deeply, trying not to break down.

I know now without a doubt that if I had come to Cray’s door, he would’ve chosen me over the other girls and women, at least for a while. I shiver. Cray isn’t the worst Head Peacekeeper the district could have. He’s let a lot of things slide over the years, including my years of hunting. But he can be a very dangerous man if you are a woman.

 

* * *

 

Because of the children, I go through the motions, day by day. I just barely make it. Prim asks me if I want help to arrange Ivy’s first birthday party, and I gratefully accept. We even end up having it at Prim’s house, although I pay for all the expenses. Even though we only invite my family and Gale’s family, it’s still too much for me to deal with alone right now, and Prim understands. She does her best to keep everyone entertained. I’ve never exactly been the life of the party, but I’m pretty sure the others notice that I’m even more quiet than usual. Hazelle tries to talk to me when we're alone in the kitchen, but fortunately, Prim intervenes. I simply can’t deal with Hazelle right now. The guilt is overwhelming.

The best distraction, though, is the birthday girl who walks unassisted, for the very first time, at her own birthday party. I hug her, tears rolling down my cheeks. Once she’s down on the floor again, she keeps showing off her new skill, her little face glowing.

My mother notices that something is wrong, although I can’t bring myself to tell her what that something is. When we clean up after the party together with Prim, my mother offers to take the children the next day so I can have some time on my own. I try to smile, and I accept.

 

* * *

 

I’m not quite sure what to do on my unexpected day off. I go back to the Victors’ Village from the Seam after dropping off the children. I walk slowly at first, enjoying the peace and quiet for once. Now what? I could go to the Meadow, but it’s summer, school is out, and I don’t want to run into anyone. I had my fill of the stares and the whispers on Reaping Day.

The Victors’ Village is in sight, and I see the house from afar… and then I know exactly how I will spend the day. Peeta has spent so much time behind that locked door at the end of the corridor. Whatever he is hiding in that room, I somehow know that it can help me understand who that other side of Peeta is. Capitol Peeta – because I am quite certain that’s who I was with that night. 

Still, I feel like a thief when I locate the key in the bottom of his underwear drawer. I’m not sure if he knows that I found the key months ago. I haven’t done anything with it until now. I’ve respected his wishes and stayed out of the room.

But I’m not going to respect his wishes today.

I put the key into the lock and turn it. The mechanism is well oiled and the door unlocks smoothly, almost without a sound. I hesitate for a few seconds before I slowly open the door.

My instant reaction is recognition because of the smell; the faint scent of chemicals I’ve felt in the hallway from time to time must come from in here. I can’t see anything, the blinds must be down.  I switch on the light, and I freeze at the sight. The whole room is covered, from floor to ceiling, in paintings. They are not just hanging on the wall, there are paintings stacked up _everywhere_. There must be hundreds of them, all different sizes.

I immediately understand that Peeta must have created them. There are so many paintings, he couldn’t possibly have bought them from another artist. And if he had, why would he hide them in a room like this one?

I also immediately understand that Peeta must be very talented.

On the wall on my left hand side, the images are dark and horrific. I recognize scenes from his Hunger Games, images of the mutts that chased him. Their eyes belonged to tributes that were already dead, and Peeta has captured the horror of it perfectly. It’s even scarier than it was on TV. I get an impression of what it really must’ve been like to be chased by those mutts, and it’s absolutely terrifying. There are many paintings of Cato. In most of them, his body is being torn apart by the mutts. There are paintings of Madge’s lifeless face. Paintings of Rue, with the flowers. There are so many paintings that it's hard to take in. In some of them, it’s as if the colors and lines merge together into something new, something that is not of this world. I recognize the confusion and lack of coherence from my own nightmares, even if my nightmares are not about the Hunger Games.

So this is what tortures him at night. No wonder he screams his head off.

The largest painting is at least two yards wide and about as high, portraying five beastly mutts. It is the scariest one of them all. I can practically see how the mutts are threatening to rip their way through the canvas, to chase after me. And their eyes… The mutt in the center has Rue’s eyes, brown and beautiful. But instead of being warm and kind, as they were when Rue was alive, the mutt’s eyes are vicious. The mutt next to it is clearly Madge. To see her in this form is shocking and brings tears to my eyes. I used to have lunch with Madge at school. She was quiet and sometimes funny and always kind. That they would do this to her, whatever it was, is sickening.

I force myself to look away.

I look at the other canvases. A stack of apples, unearthed landmines with exposed wires. A silver parachute with specks of blood on it. A girl, her face disfigured by what must be stings from trackerjackers. Only the red color of her hair, and having seen the special from Peeta’s Hunger Games quite recently, makes it possible to identify her as Lux from District 5. While some paintings are realistic, and some are clearly nightmares, other paintings look more like hallucinations. The colors are too vivid, and the familiar shapes of plants and trees and people are twisted into something almost unrecognizable.

It becomes difficult to tell what’s real and not real.

The wall to my right, however, is very different. It takes me a few seconds to understand what exactly it is that I see. First I meet the eyes of a young girl. Her eyes are Seam gray, like mine. She is wearing a red plaid dress, and her hair is in two braids instead of one.

I’m looking at a painting of myself.

I must be five or six years old. I recognize the dress I wore on the first day of school. It was my best dress, in fact my _only_ good dress. I was only allowed to wear it for birthdays and special occasions.

Why would Peeta remember that dress? How could he paint me in such exquisite detail, decades later? As I look at the other paintings on the wall, my heart sinks.

They are all of me. I can follow myself growing up, from a little girl, via a lanky teenager with long, thin legs and budding breasts, to a woman. My hair is mostly braided, but in one painting, the largest one of them all, my hair is down, and I have flowers in my hair. My gaze drops down to the rounded belly. Katniss in the painting smiles softly at something, or perhaps _someone._ I look not directly at the painter, but at something to the right, in the direction of the window. My smile is relaxed. Radiant, even.

I remember it now. I don’t have flowers in my hair often, but Arrow had picked them for me, and he insisted. Peeta must’ve seen me last summer, when I was pregnant with Ivy.

I cover my mouth with my hand as I take in the wall, filled with different versions of _me_. I don’t know much about art, but I know it must have been impossible for him to paint all of these in the months that have passed since we moved in, even though that in itself would’ve been disturbing enough. Peeta must have been painting me for _years_. It would appear that aside from the Hunger Games, he’s painted me, and _only_ me.

I switch off the light and leave the room, locking the door behind me. My hands are shaking as I put the key back into its hiding place in the drawer. I go back to my own room and lie down on the bed. My heart is pounding as the implications of what I’ve just seen start to become clear.

The words of 16-year-old Peeta Mellark, shy and innocent in his interview before the 74th Hunger Games, echo in my head. _“Well, there is this one girl. I’ve had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I’m pretty sure she didn’t know I was alive until the reaping.”_

He was talking about _me_. He’s been in love with me all along, and I didn’t see it. Gale would always laugh at how oblivious I was to the attention boys - and men - gave me. I didn’t even understand that Gale was interested in me until he just went ahead and kissed me. And Peeta… When Caesar Flickerman asked him if this mysterious girl he was in love with had “another fellow,” Peeta answered _, “I don’t know, but a lot of boys like her.”_

I don't know if it’s true that “a lot of boys” liked me. But I do know that when Peeta came home to 12 after the Hunger Games, the girl he was in love with _did_ have a fellow, because I was with Gale.

Peeta never told me. Instead, he retreated to this room and painted me in secret. He locked those feelings away in his big, lonely house in the Victors’ Village, and drank himself to oblivion together with Haymitch.

It suddenly hurts to breathe.

I don’t get out of bed until late in the afternoon, when I have to get back to my mother’s house to pick up the children. When I go to the bathroom before I leave, there is blood in my underwear, and thankfully, there is a familiar cramping in my lower abdomen.

Despite everything that’s happened, I haven’t cried these last two weeks. But now, I finally break down and cry in relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 17 is written in Peeta’s POV. We’ll find out what happens to him in the Capitol – oh, and Cashmere makes an appearance too, of course.
> 
> The end of the story is actually in sight, although it might not feel like that to you right now. :) There will probably be around 23 chapters, including an epilogue. 
> 
> Comments and reviews always make my day! Thank you so much to everyone who has taken the time to review, PM me on FFN or Tumblr, favorite, follow and leave kudos. It means so much to me!


	17. The 89th Annual Hunger Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lbug84 for betaing and Chelzie for prereading!

**Peeta’s POV**

I’ve worked my way through two full bottles when Haymitch finally shows up at the Hall of Justice. It's just before the reaping is about to begin. He’s drunk, but no worse than usual. Certainly no worse than I am.

“Fuck you, kid, for stealing my liquor,” he growls when he sees me with an empty bottle in my hand.

“Manners!” Effie scolds him. Her upper lip is curled in disgust. She has long since given up on Haymitch. I think she’s starting to give up on me, too. She turns her back on us, and continues discussing some last-minute changes of the live televised event with the director’s assistant, completely ignoring both of us.

Haymitch can tell that something is wrong. He doesn't speak to me, though. He sits next to me on stage and does what he does best: zones out. I also try to mentally check out, but my thoughts keep drifting to a dark place.  But not even the liquor coursing through my veins helps drown out the scream that echoes through the town square when the first name is called, so I decide to look alive. I make eye contact with the boy, frail and trembling on stage, for exactly three seconds before changing my mind. I leave the stage before I'm supposed to, and Haymitch joins me. The peacekeepers don't stop us since we're going to our proper place.

Once on the train, I head straight for the refreshments. I’m already chugging a bottle of Capitol liquor called gin when Haymitch finally speaks.

“Lover’s tiff?”

I freeze at his words.

That must not be the reaction Haymitch had been expected. “What happened?” The sarcasm is gone from his voice. I don’t answer. Haymitch narrows his eyes, but he doesn't press.  We sit in silence, drinking together until the new tributes are ushered in.

Reaping Day is always a nightmare, and today was no exception. This year’s tributes from 12 have no chance of survival whatsoever. As usual. Thankfully, neither of them are interested in us yet. They follow Effie through the car and into their respective rooms.

“What did you do?”

Haymitch's voice doesn't startle me. I purse my lips while I consider my response. “You assume correctly that it’s something that I did,” I laugh bitterly. “What does that say about me?”

Haymitch takes the bottle from my hands and pours himself a glass. “It tells me you’re fucked up. _That’s_ hardly news.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s Katniss, isn’t it?”

I nod. I don't meet his eyes. I stare out the window, where 12 is disappearing on the horizon. We’re in between districts now. Where there is nothing but forests, mountains and the ruins of lost towns and cities the Capitol doesn’t want anyone to know about. “Last night, we… or I…”

I don’t even really know what happened. Not the details of it, anyway. I can’t quite make all the bits and pieces fit. I don’t know what’s real and what’s not real. “I took one of the green pills last night. I couldn't deal with the mandatory viewing, much less the recap of my Hunger Games. I just couldn’t deal with it all without drugs.” Even I hear how pathetic that sounds.

“What did Katniss, who doesn’t even want you to drink, have to say about you getting high?” Haymitch asks, his voice sarcastic again. “Because I assume she noticed?”

“Yeah, she did. But we still...” I take a deep breath. “We slept together.”

Haymitch lifts his glass up in a toast, raising an eyebrow. “Well, good for you, son.”

“We hadn’t been together before.”

Haymitch’s eyes widen in surprise. “Really?” I sigh. _Everyone_ seems to believe that Katniss and I have been sleeping together for months. He laughs. “Well, I’ll be damned… How did you two manage to live in the same house for _five_ months without doing the dirty deed?" I shrug my shoulders. "Haven't you been in love with her ‘forever’ or something?”

“I really don’t need to be reminded.”

“I’m hardly an expert on relationships, but I could’ve told you in advance that fucking someone you care about for the first time when you’re high _really_ isn’t a good idea.” His words make me want to shatter every bottle in the bar. Haymitch is right – not only about the drugs, but about the fucking part as well. Even on the couch, I fucked her. How could I do that to her when it was our first time? “Well, what did she say this morning? Did she regret it?”

“I didn’t talk to her.”

“You… didn’t talk to her?” Haymitch swears under his breath. “Did you run off last night?”

I hesitate. “Yeah, I kind of did.” I pour myself another drink and chug half of it before I continue. “That’s not everything that happened. After… _after_ , we went up to my room. I was terrified of having nightmares after the mandatory viewing, so I took a couple of sleeping pills. We fell asleep, and at some point during the night, I had a nightmare.” I pause. Haymitch doesn’t say anything, he just looks at me. I’m still staring out the train window. “That's where my memories get fuzzy. I think it was something about Cato… and mutts. But Katniss was there. She tried to wake me, she held me, and the next thing I know, things were out of control.”

Haymitch’s knuckles are white, he’s clutching the glass so hard. “Peeta, look at me.” His voice is cold. “Look at me,” he snaps when I don’t obey. I exhale and when I finally look up, there is fire in his eyes. He’s eerily similar to Katniss sometimes. “What did you do?”

“I’m not sure,” I tell him. “I told you I don’t remember all of it. It’s all fuzzy and… shiny. At times I don’t even think I knew if I was with Katniss or… someone else.”

“Someone else? Who?”

“Cashmere. Or maybe a client."

“Did you hurt her?” His voice is very low. When I don’t answer, he slowly repeats his question, this time his voice is louder and bordering on angry. “Did you hurt her?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper after a long silence. I think about the bite mark on her neck, about the way she looked at me after. “I think so.”

Reluctantly, I tell Haymitch the things I remember. Broken pieces. He doesn’t interrupt me, not even once. When I’ve finished, when there are no more confusing details to tell him, I expect him to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stares out through the train window. It’s getting dark outside. Soon there will be nothing to see but our own reflections in the window. I don’t really have any desire to look at myself right now.

"What do I do?” Strangely, in many ways, Haymitch is still my mentor. I still go to him for advice.

He looks so old now, though. His skin has a slight yellowish tinge. “You could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve her, Peeta.”

“I know.”

“It’s not your fault you were fucked up by the Capitol, but it _is_ your fault that you got high and fucked up the only good thing you have going in your life.” Haymitch snatches the bottle away from me, and pours himself another drink. He sets the bottle down on the table, but outside of my reach. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to mentor. You’re going to do everything in your power to get one of those two kids out of the arena alive.” I open my mouth to protest, but he ignores me. “I don’t want to hear you say that it’s no use, that they’ll die anyway. You’re going to _try_ , and I won’t let your personal fuck-ups have any influence on the survival of two innocent _children_ from 12. Is that clear?” I nod, resigned. “So you’re going to fulfill your mentoring duties. You’re not going to drink or do drugs until they are both dead. You are going to fuck whoever Snow tells you to fuck, and you’re _not_ going to call her.”

“I’m not?”

“No. You can’t talk about something like this on the phone. Give her space. If you’re going to fix this, you’ll have to wait until you get home.”

 

* * *

 

It takes roughly ten minutes for Cashmere to find out what happened between Katniss and me. She, like Haymitch, could immediately tell that something was wrong. “You behaved like _them_ , Peeta,” she hisses after I reluctantly tell her. “How could you?”

I haltingly try to explain, but my pathetic attempts only serve to infuriate her, and our conversation ends with a lot of shouting on her end. She throws a couple of wine glasses against the wall in my suite, dangerously close to my head. That’s a first. Cashmere very rarely loses her composure.

Afterwards, she refuses to speak to me.

The Capitol is an even lonelier and colder place without her support.

Finnick doesn’t talk about it, but I see from his eyes that he knows. Cashmere or Haymitch must have told him, as he’s good friends with both of them. The fight between Cashmere and me, and her subsequent refusal to have anything to do with me, causes a rift in the victor group. The group is expanded now during the Hunger Games, when it’s not only the smallish group of prostitute victors, but the other mentors as well. Johanna calls me “brainless” and rolls her eyes. The others don’t say anything about it to me directly, but it’s clear that most of them know that I’m the reason why Cashmere, who I usually spend a lot of time with in the Capitol, even avoids our outings whenever she can.

Never has the Capitol been more unbearable. I do as Haymitch said. I do everything in my power to save those two Seam children, even though it’s futile and I find it difficult to remember their names. The arena is a desert, with endless stretches of heat and sand. There was no way to prepare them. The girl is murdered at the Cornucopia by a knife in the back while reaching for a bag of supplies. She ignored our advice to run, but once I saw the arena, I couldn't blame her for trying to grab water when she saw it. The boy is killed the next day, and not by another tribute. He stumbles upon a snake, which he quickly learns is a mutt. His death is quick at least, but certainly not painless.

That’s when I start drinking. There is no one to save anymore. I’ve fulfilled my deal with Haymitch – well, this part of the deal, anyway. The children are dead, and I can dull my senses again. What if I become like Haymitch? I wouldn’t be desirable anymore. They’d leave me alone. I’d have to mentor, but at least my body would belong to _me_. One trip a year to the Capitol. I think I’d be able to deal with that. At least I’d deal better with that than what I do now.

There are clients. Nameless, faceless.

I don’t do drugs, though. I won’t do drugs, not ever again. There will be complaints from customers, I’m almost sure of it, but I don’t care.

 

* * *

 

I’m called into Snow’s office. I haven’t been there in years. I’ve been a good victor. I haven’t done anything that deserves punishment. Being called into Snow’s office is not a good sign.

Snow is a busy man, and he doesn’t waste any time. He greets me briefly, and then he cuts to the chase. He shows me a hologram. It’s Katniss, who has just come up from the river. She wrings water out of her hair with a smile on her face.

So they were watching us by the river, too. Cashmere was right.

Snow is short and to the point. I am to control my drinking and do my job, or someone that I care for will pay the price.

“You tried to protect her by letting her go,” Snow says. When he notices the surprise I’m unable to hide, he actually laughs. “Oh, Mr. Mellark, I knew about Katniss Everdeen – well, Katniss Hawthorne now – even before you told all of Panem about this mysterious girl you loved.” He leans back in his chair, a small smile on his bluish lips. “I don’t really care what you do in 12, Mr. Mellark." His smile is suddenly gone. “You will keep your indiscretions contained to your home district. When you’re here in the Capitol, I expect you to behave properly. Is that understood?"

Through clenched teeth and a fired smile, I answer. "Yes."

 

* * *

 

“So Snow called you into his office, huh?” Diamond’s face is devoid of emotion. She’s back in business, and hasn’t made any mistakes this season. She’s taken to drinking with Spar every night, though. Things could easily spin out of control for her, too.

“Yeah.”

Diamond takes another sip from her glass. It’s her fourth tonight. Or the fifth. We’re at one of those weird Capitol social functions that victors are expected to attend, pretending as if we’re here because we want to be. The music in this club is too loud; it’s hard to hear each other without shouting. “Funny how the roles are reversed, isn’t it?” I’m not sure if ‘funny’ is the word I’d use. “A few months ago, you were the one who told _me_ to get it together.”

Diamond leaves the club with a Capitolite who may or may not be a customer.

 

* * *

 

When I return to my room, I find Finnick sitting in the armchair in the corner. He sits so perfectly still that it takes a few seconds for me to even notice that he’s there.

“How did you get in here?” I ask him.

“I borrowed Cashmere’s keycard.” Damn. I should probably ask to get it back, but she’s had my keycard for years, and I really hadn’t given it much thought.

“What are you going to do?” Finnick asks. He’s clearly helped himself to a drink from my minibar, which isn’t really all that mini. When I open it to get a drink of my own, though, I’m surprised to find it empty.

“What did you do with all the booze?” I ask him.

“I poured it all out,” he says, lifting his glass in a toast. “This is all that’s left.”  He chugs it all down and sets the glass on the table beside the armchair.

He gets up and walks over to me. “You have two choices. You can keep doing what you’ve been doing - and Katniss and her children _will_ end up dead. That’s something you’d have to live with for the rest of your sorry excuse for a life. _Or_ you can get your shit together, stop feeling sorry for yourself, and fuck whoever Snow asks you to fuck without complaining, like the rest of us do.”

I’ve rarely heard Finnick talk like this. He’s usually flirtatious or diplomatic or both. But not tonight. 

As he leaves my suite, he turns around to look at me. “Don’t bother trying to get more liquor from room service. I made a deal with the manager.”

I wonder what that deal involves, other than the no liquor part. But I guess I don’t really want to know.

 

* * *

 

No liquor. No drugs. Nothing to numb the pain.

Cashmere is still not speaking to me, and being here in the Capitol without her support is almost more than I can handle.

Still, I get through it, one day at a time. I’m a victor, after all. Surviving is what I’m best at. Sometimes, when it feels like I can’t handle it anymore, I think about Ivy’s chubby hands and smile. The look of concentration on Arrow’s face as he does his homework by the kitchen table at night. Katniss’s triumphant smile when she beats me in poker.

It helps. I don’t know what waits for me in 12 when I get home, but whatever happens, I will do anything to keep them all safe.

 

* * *

 

A girl from 4 wins the Hunger Games. It’s a surprise. There has only been one winner from 4 since Annie accidentally won, nearly 20 years ago. 4 isn’t really a career district anymore. Hardly anyone volunteers, and their tributes tend to get killed off early. The tribute training academy has become more and more like a normal school. Things aren’t what they used to be in 4. Everyone knows it, but discussing it openly is too dangerous.

Finnick and I are in the bar on the 12th floor. It’s late at night. We are both drinking water. Finnick’s steadying presence helps me stay away from the alcohol.

Annie is in 4. She doesn’t have to mentor or even come to the Capitol at all anymore. Finnick has struck some kind of deal with Snow. I don’t know what it cost him, but I suppose Snow isn’t interested in risking a mentally unstable victor mentor having a public breakdown. I’ve only met her twice, many years ago, back when she still came to the Capitol. She was quiet and distant then, but still coherent. Annie has since become an ‘indiscretion’ that Finnick has to keep contained to his home district.

He looks exhausted. His tribute, Sela, is a victor now. She's also in the hospital. She's injured, but she'll live.

“This is actually the last thing I need,” Finnick says. His eyes are hollow. He sighs. “I bet Cashmere sometimes wishes Diamond had died in the arena.”

His words are harsh, particularly from knowing how hard Finnick fought to keep her alive in the arena. But I know they are probably true. Perhaps it would’ve been easier for both of them if Diamond and Sela had been killed. Now, Finnick is the one who’s going to be responsible for helping a brand new victor survive in the Capitol. A world which is just as dangerous and destructive as the arena, just in a different way.

 

* * *

 

The last customer of the season has left. I stand in the shower, trying to cleanse myself, but I know it won’t work, even though the warm water doesn’t run out here like it does in my house back home. Still, I have to get out eventually. When I go into the bedroom, wearing nothing but a towel around my waist, I find Cashmere sitting on my bed. Her feet are bare and curled up under her. She’s wearing a purple cocktail dress, which shows off her slender, perfectly toned legs. Her make-up is partially smeared. It’s a pretty safe bet that she’s just come from a customer. I know that she’s going home tomorrow, too.

“Hi.” My mouth is dry. She hasn’t spoken to me since that first night in the Capitol. The one with all the yelling and the shattered wine glasses.

“Hi.”

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out.

“It’s not me you have to apologize to,” she says slowly.

I nod. I’m not sure if Katniss will want to hear my apology, though. My only consolation is that I’m sure that she and the children are alive. Snow sent me a letter yesterday. He is satisfied with my improved behavior, and he _encourages_ me to keep on track in the future.

Cashmere takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, too.”

“Why?” I ask, surprised.

“I’m sorry for shutting you out. I’m sure it’s not what you needed from me. It’s a shitty situation for you, too. Not just for Katniss.”

“It’s my fault, though.”

She nods. “Yes, it is. But unlike Katniss, I know why you’re so fucked up in the first place.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“No, it’s not. But it’s an explanation - or part of one, anyway. I don’t get why you were stupid enough to mix drugs like that, though. You’ve been in this business for years, Peeta - you should’ve known better.” Cashmere gets up and finds a bottle of water from the minibar. She doesn’t seem surprised that there’s no liquor in it. She gave Finnick her keycard, so she must’ve been in on his plan, too. She sits back down on the bed. She sees me eyeing the bottle suspiciously, and throws her head back and laughs. “You do know that if I had wanted to hit you with those wine glasses, I wouldn’t have missed, right?”

I suppose that’s true. I’ve seen her throw knives, her aim is incredible. My shoulders relax somewhat. I swallow. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” She takes a few sips of water, and then leans back on the bed, resting against the satin pillows.

“Have I ever hurt you?”

Cashmere studies me carefully, but doesn’t answer right away. “I don’t think you can compare Katniss with me.”

I swear under my breath. “So I have?”

Cashmere rolls her eyes. “Peeta, you’ve been high when we’ve been together more times than I can count. I’ve been high, too, but not always. There’s a reason why you don’t do drugs when you’re with clients, right? Because you’re afraid of losing control?” I nod. “So why did you allow yourself to lose control with Katniss?”

I don’t really want to answer that question, so I try to dodge it. “Why didn’t you ever stop me from taking drugs? Why didn’t you tell me if I did anything to hurt you?”

“I’ve used drugs to escape, too. Besides, it’s not as if I haven’t physically hurt you in the past, either.” That’s true. I remember several times when she did. But it doesn’t make me feel any better. She may be a victor, but she’s still a woman, and I’m  physically stronger than her. “Besides, you’re usually attentive, even when you’ve been high. And the few times when  you weren’t, when you got rough…” She cocks her head and shrugs. “I have to confess that I kind of liked it. Mostly, anyway. And I knew that if I wanted you to stop, I had a few tricks down my sleeve that would’ve defused  the situation very quickly.”

“I never meant to…” I begin, but she interrupts me.

“I’m not Katniss, okay? I know what you do here in the Capitol, and I know how you react. I’m used to abuse, but _you’ve_ never abused me, so don’t feel sorry about it, alright? I kept coming back to your bed because I wanted to. Katniss is different, though. She’s… pure, you know? Your relationship with her is very different from the one you have with me. _Had_ with me,” she corrects herself.

She gets up from the bed and walks towards me in her ridiculously high heels. I’m still only wearing the towel. Water drips from my wet hair and down my neck.

“Why did you allow yourself to lose control?” she repeats.

This time I can’t avoid the question. “Because I was scared,” I admit.

She nods. It looks like she expected that answer. “You have to tell Katniss everything, Peeta. You got yourself into this mess because you kept secrets from her, and you’re the only one who can do anything about it.” Her blue eyes lock with mine.

“I can’t tell her. She’ll…”

Cashmere rolls her eyes. “She’ll what? Leave you?” I nod hesitantly. “She might do that anyway. But even if she does, I think she deserves to know the truth - if only because she loves you.”

I can barely breathe.

Katniss loves me?

Cashmere lets out a short laugh that sounds tired rather than happy. “Of course, the truth just might make her run in the opposite direction, which would probably be the smartest thing she could ever do.”

“I know.” I think about the meeting with Snow, and the letter.

Her face softens somewhat. “But then again, maybe she won't. Maybe she'll see that despite everything the Capitol has done to you, underneath all that, you are still a painter. A baker.” She reaches out her hand and traces the line of my jaw with her index finger. “You’re a good man, Peeta. Despite everything that’s happened, you’re a good man.”

I don’t know how to answer that.

“And you will do whatever it takes to protect them.”

“Yes," I admit. "I suppose I will.”

She gets another towel from the bathroom and throws it to me. I sit down on the edge of the bed and dry my hair. She sits down next to me. “But you know something, Peeta?” I turn my head to look questioningly at her. “It’s worth it.”

“What do you mean?”

“At the end of the day, it’s worth it. Because nothing could be worse than causing the death of someone you love. So whatever Snow makes you do… It’s worth it.” She lies back on the bed, her feet still touching the floor, and I do the same.

“Who is he?” I ask her. “The person you love.” The person she’s protecting. The reason why she’s always dodged my questions when I asked her about her life in 1, talking only about Gloss. I look at her, but she only stares up at the ceiling. 

“It’s not a he. It’s a _she_."

This comes as a surprise. I know Cashmere has been with more than a few women here in the Capitol, but I thought all of them had been paying customers. I’m far from the only lover she has taken on out of her own free will here in the Capitol, but as far as I know, they have all been male. I never thought she was bisexual.

“My daughter.” Her voice is soft and very low. I can’t stop the startled gasp that escapes my mouth.

“You have… a daughter?” I whisper. She nods. “But when… how…”

“Turns out that not even Capitol contraceptive drugs are 100% effective,” she says. “As to when… If you think about it, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

I think back. I’ve certainly never seen Cashmere pregnant. So that leaves two possibilities – either before I became a victor, or…

“Five years ago,” I say, and she looks up at me. I immediately see that I’m right. “You missed a season. Gloss said you had broken your leg, but I always found that a bit odd, because the Capitol doctors can speed up the natural healing process of a fracture to a couple of weeks at most. We were supposed to be working for four weeks, and you never joined us. And the Hunger Games that year… You didn’t come to the Capitol until a few days into the Games. You’d never done that before.”

She nods. “Yes. I managed to hide the pregnancy until I was almost four months along, but I knew I would fail the pre-season medical check, so I had to confess to Snow before that happened.”

Almost four months… I quickly do the math in my head. Four months earlier… was that year’s fall season. “Cashmere,” I ask her in a strangled voice, “who is your daughter’s father?”

“Gloss.” The answer is both an intense relief and a shock. “I had no idea who the father was, of course. It could’ve been anyone. I wouldn’t even know where to begin without the prenatal paternity testing - but Snow insisted that we carry it out. The doctors started with the three easiest candidates because they already had their DNA profiles readily available – you, Finnick and Gloss. But, out of all the men it could’ve been, it turned out I’d been knocked up by my own brother.”

“Why did Snow let you keep the baby?” I ask her. The question is spontaneous and honest; I hadn’t intended for it to be cruel, but as soon as the words leave my lips, I realize that it is. I can see that she cringes. “Sorry,” I say. “That sounded awful. I didn’t mean to…”

She shakes her head. “It’s okay. I’m honestly not quite sure why. It would’ve been easy for Snow to force me to have a termination.” She takes a deep breath. “I _begged_ him to allow me to keep the baby. It was the most humiliating thing I’ve ever experienced in my life, and I’ve been through more than my fair share of humiliation, Peeta.” Yes, she certainly has. “Perhaps Snow realized that this was the perfect way of keeping both me and Gloss obedient? Perhaps he has some hidden agenda we don’t know about yet? Either way, he agreed to reschedule my season for later. Gloss made up a flimsy excuse as to why I couldn’t come, and officially, my child would be my little sister’s daughter.”

She turns her head to look at me. She’s not crying, instead I’m the one with tears rolling down my cheeks. Her face, on the other hand, is almost devoid of emotion.

“But you see,” she says, her voice almost dreamy, “not even the Capitol is perfect. Even their science has flaws. Before Snow allowed me to continue the pregnancy, they did every possible test on her DNA, and they all came back normal. But still, when they cut her out of me, it turned out she was special. Something they had never seen before. That’s probably why the tests came back negative; they simply couldn’t have a test for something they didn’t know existed. Maybe it’s because her parents are siblings, or maybe it would’ve happened anyway. Whatever it is, she’ll never be like other children her age.”

I reach out my hand towards her, offering her my hand in case she wants it. I wish I knew what to say, but I don’t. Words seem inadequate. To my relief, she accepts my hand and squeezes it.

“I didn’t know at first. They did a c-section just two days before the start of the Hunger Games, as soon as I was 37 weeks along. They whisked her off and didn’t even allow me to see her. I had just barely gotten on my feet after my surgery when they put me on the train to the Capitol to mentor. No one told me anything. I realized later that my father’s prominent position in 1, and the pressure he exerted on the hospital, were the only reasons why they didn’t just… _let_ her die, discreetly, while I was away.” I wish I could be surprised, but unfortunately, I’m not. “Gloss and I came back to 1 when our daughter was a month old. We came home to a sick baby who was fed through a tube in her nose, who would stop breathing several times every night, and needed constant monitoring by a nurse. But when I held her for the first time, I knew that I would never allow anyone to hurt her.”

She keeps her tight grip on my hand. “Gradually, she got better. A lot better. She’s eating on her own now, and unless she has an infection, she only needs monthly medical check-ups. She is five years old now, but she still can’t speak, and the pediatrician in 1 doesn’t think she ever will.  She communicates using hand signals, though. She has learned to walk, but only short distances, because her heart can’t quite keep up. She will never learn all the things that most other children will.”

For the first time, her face breaks into a big, proud smile. “But she has the most beautiful blond, curly hair. Her eyes are the same shade of blue as Gloss’s. Nothing in the world makes me happier than her laughter does, or the delighted sounds she makes when she sees me. Her hugs make me forget everything else. She’s worth it all, Peeta. She’s worth every humiliation Snow could throw at me.”

“What’s her name?”

“Ava.” Her answer is only a whisper.

She turns her head to look at me. She is still smiling. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask her. We have been so close for so many years. How could she not tell me?

“Well, first of all, her existence has been a secret. It wouldn’t look good if the two picture-perfect Graph siblings had a baby. I mean, we both know the Capitolites are crazy; they like to watch brother and sister fuck after all, but even they wouldn’t like to see us have a _child_ together. And a special needs child at that. You know what the Capitol is like – the surface always has to be perfect.” She rolls her eyes.

“But isn’t it…” I nod towards the walls. The suite is bugged. Surely she must know that.

“The bugs?” she says dryly. I can’t believe she’d say that out loud. “Well, the people who listen in on the victors are a team,” she says, louder now. “Aren’t you, guys?” I wonder how she knows all these things. “The people who are monitoring your suite already know, because they are the same people who monitor my suite, too. And I talk to Ava on the phone every day.” It makes sense, sort of. “I haven’t told you before because I knew you wouldn’t be able to understand. Not until now."

“What do you mean? Why is it different now?”

“Because you’ve only just started to love someone. I know what you feel for Katniss is not the same kind of love, but it’s love.” She smiles at me. “We are victors, Peeta. We do what we have to do when we’re here in the Capitol, and when we go home and meet them again, we remember why it’s worth it. Right?”

I nod wordlessly. She kisses me lightly on the lips, breathes “goodnight” to me, and leaves. 

It’s my last night in the Capitol. My bed is cold and empty and too big for one, and I don’t dare sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet you didn't see that one coming, huh? 
> 
> Next: Peeta goes home to 12.


	18. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Lbug84 for being the best beta ever!

**Katniss POV**

 

There will be nothing triumphant about the train’s return to District 12 tonight. Two caskets will be in tow, the same as every year. But that’s not the only reason why I’ve been a nervous wreck all day.

Prim joins me for lunch. Our conversation is light, and for that I'm grateful. It's not until we've finished our meal and she's gathering up her things to leave that she brings it up. Her eyes search mine. “You don’t have to stay here, you know," she says quietly. "You could quit. Move back to the Seam?” Prim is still angry with Peeta. As for myself, I’m not sure how I feel.

I shake my head. “You know I can’t.”

“Yes, you can," she argues, growing louder. "We’ll find a way. There is no excuse for treating you like he did.” I wave my hand, as if I could bat her words away. “Some people might call it-" She stops short and lowers her voice before she speaks again. "Some people might call it rape, Katniss."

"It wasn't-"

"It can be a very fine line sometimes.”

It’s the first time either of us has used that word. I haven’t even wanted to think about it. My mouth is dry. “It wasn’t _that_. I’m not sure what it was, exactly.”

“You're not sure what it was,” she repeats. I shake my head. “Don’t make it sound like it was your fault.”

“I’m not saying it was.”

She scowls in a way that most people don't even know she can. “Peeta Mellark, poor, traumatized victor, got so upset watching his Hunger Games on TV that he can't be held accountable for his actions." She laughs bitterly. "That’s what you keep telling yourself, isn’t it?” She’s angry, her blue eyes look almost black. Peeta should be glad he’s not here right now. “You have to stop making excuses for him, Katniss.”

I know that Prim is right. I do have to stop making excuses for him. “Let’s just see what happens when he comes home, alright?”

Prim seems unconvinced. “What are you planning to do?”

“I’m going to talk to him about it.” Prim doesn’t know about the room at the end of the corridor. She doesn’t know just how much Peeta and I have to discuss.

“Good. Do you want me to be here when you talk to him?” I shake my head. “Are you sure it’s safe?”

“Yes, of course it is.”

Prim doesn’t look convinced. “Just promise me that if he’s drunk or high when he comes home, you won’t talk to him about what happened that night until I can be present. Okay?”

I sigh, looking away, but don’t answer.

“Promise me?” Prim presses.

“I promise.”

 

* * *

 

I know what time the train is supposed to arrive, but I don’t go to the train station. It’s past the children’s bedtime, which is as good an excuse as any, but even if it wasn’t, and even if things weren't up in the air like they are now, I wouldn’t have gone. Going to the train station to meet Peeta in public, when everyone in 12 believes me to be his whore? It’s unacceptable. Like everything else I do, I suppose.

I consider going to bed early, just to put off speaking with Peeta a bit longer. But I decide it’s better for this first meeting to happen when the children are asleep. We live in the same house, for now, anyway. We can’t avoid each other.

It’s been over than a month, and I still don’t know what to say to him. It’s nearly 10 when I hear heavy steps on the gravel outside the house. I don't find the words come to mind any easier as he approaches. Peeta opens the front door, and I can hear him put his suitcase down on the floor and take off his shoes. And finally, he stands in the doorway to the living room. I sit on the couch, clutching a book that I’ve been trying unsuccessfully to read.

Peeta looks tired and older than I’ve ever seen him. He doesn’t say anything.  It’s clear that he’s not going to speak first.

“Hi,” I begin.

He clears his throat. “Hi.” He sits down in the armchair. The distance between us seems even greater now that he's here. “I’ve been wracking my brain this last month, trying to figure out how to make it up to you, but I can’t. There’s nothing I can say or do that can convey how sorry I am, except to say: I'm sorry.”

I don’t answer. I suspect he’s prepared this speech, and I want him to finish it, without interruptions from me. Perhaps I’ll learn something I never would have if I started asking questions right away. I’ll ask my questions after. I won’t let him push me away or avoid my questions, not anymore.

“During the mandatory viewing, I took some drugs I had left over from my last trip to the Capitol,” he explains. “I guess you noticed that, right?” I nod.  It was hard not to. “I cracked under the pressure. That’s the only excuse I’ve got. Pathetic, I know.” He takes a deep breath. “That was a mistake in itself, but then I also took a couple of sleeping pills before I went to bed. Before _we_ went to bed,” he corrects himself. “Sometimes, when you mix drugs, they can have strange effects. And when I woke up that night, I didn’t quite know what was real and not real.”

It’s hard for me to understand, how you can’t know what’s real or not. I’ve never done drugs. At worst, I've had too much white liquor at a few Seam parties back when I was a teenager. It can’t be the same. The liquor may have made me sick, but I always knew what was real.

“It was real,” I tell him. I didn't intend for my voice to sound so cold.

“I know now that it was." He looks away. "Look, I’ll completely understand it if you want to quit. I’ll still make sure that you and the children won’t starve." I raise my eyebrows. That's an unexpected offer, and it should be a relief. But it would also be charity. "Whatever you decide, I want you to know that I promise you I won’t take drugs again. Ever.”

"Not even when you're in the Capitol?"

His eyes are still trained on the floor as he answers. "Not even in the Capitol."

There's a silence that stretches between us. All I hear is the sounds of the even breaths I'm forcing myself to take, and of Peeta scratching at the arms of the chair.

Peeta clears his throat nervously. “Did I...?" He cuts himself off.

"Did you what?" I ask.

"Did I hurt you?" I don't answer right away. He picks up his head and finally meets my eyes. "I don’t remember all of what happened. Just bits and pieces.”

I’m not surprised. That’s mostly what I remember, too, and I wasn’t even on drugs. I’m tempted to ask him what he _does_ remember, but seeing the defeated look on his face, I think he must remember enough. “You bit me.” I indicate the place where the bite mark, which has healed now, was. His gaze lingers on my fingertips. “You were rough in general.” I furrow my brow, because I misspoke. Him being rough wasn't the real problem. “It didn’t seem like you were really _there_. It was different from what happened earlier." On the couch that I'm currently sitting on.

“That shouldn’t have happened the way it did either,” he mutters.

"I suppose not," I agree.

"Was any of it what you wanted?" he asks.

"What?"

“I mean, did you enjoy any of it?" His voice is very low. He doesn’t look at me, instead he stares at his clasped hands.

I hesitate. “Why do you ask?”

“My memories are confusing. The drugs make them sort of shiny. It’s hard to explain. And I just can't tell if you-”

“Some of it,” I answer truthfully. “At first. In the beginning.”

"You wanted me?" He asks.

I nod my head, pushing down my feelings of shame. "I wanted you," I repeat.

"But, not like that," he says flatly. I shake my head no. He grits his teeth. “I’m sorry.”

I take a deep breath. I don't want apologies. I want answers. “What was I to you that night, Peeta?”

His eyes widen in surprise. “I’m not sure,” he says quickly. “I think that might have been part of the problem. I wasn’t sure who you were.”

I narrow my eyes. “Did you think I was someone else?” 

He exhales shakily. “Yes,” he confesses. I flinch, the pain from his words is almost physical. He must notice my shock, because he quickly continues: “Not all of the time. Just sometimes.”

“On the couch, too?”

He shakes his head. “No.” I guess it should be a relief, but I’m too upset right now to feel much relief.

“So that’s how things are done in the Capitol? You wake up in the middle of the night and whatever happens, happens? And it doesn’t matter who the person in your bed is?”

“Well… Yes and no.”

What kind of an answer is that? I don’t understand, I don’t understand any of this. Why is Capitol Peeta so different from Peeta the baker? I don’t know how all the dots are connected, but I do know that this isn’t only about what happened that night before he went to the Capitol. It started long before that, and it runs much deeper.

He's quiet, probably trying to mull over an apology. Finally, he speaks. "There are things I want to explain to you, but I don't know where to begin."

He may not know. But I do. “I went into the room,” I say. I don’t have to specify which room.

Peeta instantly knows what I’m talking about. His fists are clenched, so hard his knuckles are white. “You must think that I’m a freak.” His voice is shaking.

"I don't know what to think."

“You have no idea how fucked up I am.”

I actually think that I’m starting to realize just how screwed up he really is, but I don’t comment on it. “Why are all the paintings of me?”

I’m pretty sure that I already know the answer, but I still need him to say the words out loud. There have been too many misunderstandings between us because we don’t _talk._

“I never intended for you to see them.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“What do you think the answer is?”

I study his face intently while I contemplate what to answer. “The only reason I can think of why an artist would make that many paintings of one woman would be if..." I trail off.

"...if he was in love with her.” Peeta says, just above a whisper. He takes a sharp intake of breath. “We were five,” he says, his voice low. “You wore your hair in two braids instead of one. When the teacher asked if anyone knew the valley song, your hand shot right up. You stood up on the chair, and when you sang, I swear the birds outside the window stopped singing to listen to you.”

That explains why he would paint me on my first day of school. Why he would remember every detail - braids and plaid dress and all. “All that time?”

 “All that time," he echoes. "I never did work up the courage to talk to you. Even when you were starving, and all I did was burn some loaves of bread and throw them into the rain. I’ve always been a coward.”

I haven’t forgotten the beating I saw his mother give him over those loaves of burned bread. Peeta’s being too hard on himself. He was abused by his mother, and he was only a child. He was far from being a coward.

“Then I was reaped,” Peeta continues, “and I figured it was for the best that I’d never told you. I knew you wouldn’t grieve me, because you didn’t know me. After my Games, on the train home, I couldn't wait to see you. I'd already been through so much and there was so much I wanted to tell you. That I loved you was only the beginning. I thought that maybe, just maybe, you’d love me too. But when I came home, you were with Gale.” His eyes, which have held mine as he told me about how he fell in love with me, find the floor again as he speaks Gale’s name. “I began to understand what the arena had done to me, and that I could never hope to live a normal life. There were so many reasons why you would be much better off with Gale than with me, so I stayed away.”

“You should’ve told me.”

“Would it have changed anything, Katniss?” He looks up again with his big, blue eyes.

I shake my head. “I guess not.”

“That’s what I thought.” He leans back in the chair. “So I watched you. Maybe that makes me a crazy, pathetic stalker, but I tried to be discreet. I painted you. I loved you. I drank, and I took drugs, and it made the loneliness easier to bear. You were happy, I could see it. You must have been tired and hungry at times, sure, but overall, you were happy. _He_ made you happy. I knew I’d made the right decision.” His voice is intense, his eyes are locked with mine, but he doesn’t move.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” Peeta continues. “Seeing you when you were pregnant with Arrow almost destroyed me. And seeing him when he was born, looking so much like Gale, was even worse.” I had no idea he’d even seen me with Arrow when he was a baby. I never noticed him, not really. But apparently he noticed everything about me. “So I drank even more. And year by year, it was easier to look up at those paintings on the wall, at the Katniss I fell in love with, and know that it’s better this way. It’s better that you never knew. But then…” His voice trails off.

“But then I stood at your door,” I whisper.

“Then you stood at my door,” he repeats, tiredly.

I get up from the couch and walk up to him, but I keep some space between us. I look down at him. “So what happens now?”

“That’s up to you. I’ll completely understand it if you want to press charges on me. I won’t deny anything.”

My laugh is hollow. “Sure I will. I’ll go to Cray. What do you think _he’d_ do to me?” Peeta’s status as a victor ensures that he can do just about anything he wants to in 12. I, on the other hand, am a nobody. I’m vulnerable. “He’s been after me since I was 15 or 16,” I tell him. “He still is.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, furrowing his brow.

Damn. I didn't meant to tell him, but it slipped. “Cray came here when you were away,” I confess, and Peeta's eyes widen. “He wanted to ‘check’ if I complied with the mandatory viewing. Funny he never bothers to do that while you're home, don’t you think?”

“Did he do anything inappropriate?”

I shake my head. “Darius was with him.”

“Darius?”

“The Peacekeeper with red hair?” Peeta nods. I have to weigh my words carefully, I can’t say anything about my hunting or trading in the Hob. Not here, in this house. “I know him. He’s okay.”

Peeta curses under his breath. “I’ll deal with Cray.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Yes, I will,” he insists. “He's got a set of balls on him coming here and intimidating my-" Peeta cuts himself off. I don't think either of us knows what we are to each other. "Cray is dangerous. But he’s also expendable, and he knows it. I’ll make sure he never bothers you again.”

“Seems like I have a trail of not-so-secret admirers,” I say dryly. “I wonder how many others will come out of the woodwork?”

I’m so sick of all this. For most of my life, I’ve depended on men to protect me. First there was my father. When he died, I almost did, too. If I hadn’t started hunting with Gale, I’m not sure I would’ve made it. Getting married to Gale ensured me a house to live in, at least some food on the table, and a degree of protection from Cray. And now, I am once again in need of being protected. Only Peeta stands between me and a Head Peacekeeper who wants my body and who knows what more. Peeta also protects me from a district which thinks that I’m a whore, even though he is technically the cause of my ruined reputation.

There are a number of things that aren’t right in Panem, but the way women are treated is at the top of the list. Right up there with the Hunger Games.

He looks defeated. “I’m so sorry, Katniss.”

“It’s going to take quite a lot more than an apology to fix this, Peeta.”

“I wasn’t even sure if you wanted to try to fix things between us,” he confesses.

“I’m not sure myself either,” I admit. “I’m still trying to figure it out.”

“Katniss, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while now. I talked to Cashmere, and she said that…”

That’s it. I’ve had it. He’s apologized, repeatedly, but he hasn’t really given me any reason to start trusting him again. It’s so easy to say ‘I’m sorry’. They are just three little words can that slip off the tongue all too quickly. And now he brings up _her_ as well? I know he’s been in the Capitol with Cashmere for more than a month. I don’t want to know what they might have talked about... or what they've _done_.

“I really don’t care what Cashmere said,” I hiss. I can’t do this. “I'm going to bed,” I tell him, without turning around as I leave the room. "Alone."

I go upstairs to my own room. I consider locking the door, but I end up not doing it. I know he won’t come.

 

* * *

 

The next day, I avoid Peeta as much as I can. After following Arrow to school, I visit Prim, which means I’m out most of the day. Prim is relieved that our first talk went well – or as well as it could, I guess, all things considered. I reassure her that I have nothing to fear from Peeta, and she seems to believe me.

Later that afternoon, both of the children are playing in the living room, and Peeta knows better than to bring up the conversation we had last night when they're awake. We have dinner together, all four of us and the tension around the table is thick. Peeta doesn’t look at me for too long, and he hardly says anything. I try to ask Arrow questions about school, but he is also very quiet. It’s not like him at all. Ivy is whiny and keeps deliberately throwing food down on the floor. Peeta and I are obviously failing miserably at hiding from the children that something is wrong between us.

At night, after the children are in bed, I’m washing the dishes when Peeta comes into the kitchen. I hear his heavy footsteps behind me as he approaches the fridge. There’s something I didn’t tell him last night. There was just too much to take in, I had to clear my mind somewhat before I could tell him. I don’t know whether or not he cares, but he still needs to know.

I don’t turn around or look at him when I speak. “You’ll be happy to know that there won’t be any _results_ of what happened.” I try to keep my voice neutral, but still it’s as if I can hear the weeks of frantic worry in it. I keep scrubbing the dishes as I talk.

“Results? What do you mean?” He closes the fridge door.

I sigh. How oblivious is he? I guess I have to spell it out for him. “I’m not pregnant.”

“Katniss?” His voice is strangled.

I turn around, drying my hands on the apron, leaning my lower back against the sink. His eyes are wide and shocked. “Did you think that you could be pregnant?”

“You came inside me,” I say simply. “Even though I specifically told you not to.”

He’s very pale now. “I'm sorry.” I roll my eyes. How many times in the last 24 hours has the told me that he’s sorry?

“Is that one of the things you don’t quite remember?”

“No, I do remember that part.” He pauses. “Fuck, I’m an asshole,” he says, it seems like he’s saying it more or less to himself as he shakes his head in disbelief. At least he acknowledges it. I’m about to agree with him, but he speaks first. “I should’ve told you, I just didn’t _think_. I can’t believe I let you go through several weeks of thinking that you could’ve gotten pregnant. They give me injections in the Capitol to prevent pregnancy. They last for a year. My last shot was in March, so the idea that you could get pregnant never even crossed my mind, because I knew it wasn’t possible.”

This takes me aback. I had no idea injections like that even exist. There are a few Capitol birth control options in 12, but only the most well-off Town couples can afford them, and none of them are all that effective, anyway.

Suddenly, I’m furious. Furious that I’ve been stupid enough to listen to Haymitch’s advice and never pressure Peeta on what’s going on in the Capitol. Furious that Peeta let me go through more than two weeks of being frantic with worry that I was going to get pregnant, and it was all for nothing. “Then why didn’t you tell me?” I yell at him. “Would it have killed you to pick up the phone for just two minutes to let me know that I had nothing to worry about?”

He looks defeated. “Haymitch said I shouldn’t call you, and like I said, I didn’t _think_. I didn’t consider pregnancy at all. I’m so sorry. I thought that you were on…”

Haymitch again. "Why are you discussing so much of what goes on between us with Haymitch and Cashmere?" I’ve had enough of that old drunk interfering with my life, and Cashmere is literally the last person I want him to discuss our relationship with. Yet clearly he does.

"I... I wasn't-"

“And how could I be on any kind of birth control? Do you have any idea how people in 12 live at all?”

Looking at him, I realize he probably doesn’t. I can see how distressed he is. He’s running his fingers through his hair repeatedly. He’s pacing back and forth across the floor, breathing heavily. The idea of me thinking that I might have become pregnant must be very disturbing for him. In a way, it feels good that at least he acknowledges that it was really hard for me.

I consider what he just told me, about the injections. He got one in March, at a point in our relationship where we weren’t anywhere close to being intimate. I highly doubt Peeta asked his Capitol doctor to give him that injection because of _me_. I’ve seen Peeta on TV with various women on his arm over the years, so I suppose he has had a string of lovers in the Capitol. Getting a birth control shot to make sure they don’t get pregnant would be the responsible and sensible thing to do.

Right?

Still, something seems wrong about this. Actually, something has been wrong all along.

“Peeta. Why did you get that shot?” I say slowly.

“I told you. To prevent pregnancy.” His voice isn’t quite steady.

“To prevent that who exactly gets pregnant?” He looks away. “I've never seen you with any women in 12. Have you had a relationship with someone here?”

He shakes his head. “No, I haven’t.”

“So it’s to keep your lovers in the Capitol from getting pregnant? Because it’s not only Cashmere, is it?” He shakes his head again. “Are they _more_ than lovers to you? Are they your girlfriends?”

He looks very uncomfortable now. “They are neither.”

I don’t understand. “Then what are they?” I hiss.

“They are clients,” he says, his voice flat and strangely devoid of emotion.

“Clients?”  My confusion must show in my face.

“Yes, clients. You never wondered what exactly I was doing in the Capitol when I wasn’t mentoring? Did you really think I went there for the sights or the parties?” His voice is strangely flat. “I’m a prostitute, Katniss. I’m sure there’s a fancier word for it, but that’s the essence of it.”

“What?” It’s the only word I’m able to get out. I stare at him, stunned.

He laughs, but his laughter is short and cold. “It happens to all the victors. Well, all the desirable ones, anyway. Because survival in the Hunger Games is based largely on getting sponsors, which again is directly related to your looks, being desirable is a clear selection criterion when it comes to becoming a victor. Either you fuck who they tell you to fuck, or all your relatives and loved ones end up dead. So most of us do it, and the few who don’t, generally end up regretting it.”

“ _All_ the victors?” It’s the only thing I’m able to get out.

"I’m hardly the only one. Do you really think that Finnick _wants_ to fuck half the Capitol? He has a girlfriend back in 4. A girlfriend he loves more than anything, but no one can know about her. He can never marry her or have children with her, even though they have been together for almost two decades, she's too crazy to be shown off in the glossy Capitol magazines. Which is unfair, because the Hunger Games were what fucked her up in the first place.”

The Hunger Games? I furrow my brow, thinking back. “Annie Cresta?” I ask. I remember her now. The most unlikely winner of them all, who only survived because she was the best swimmer. She was on TV on and off for a couple of years after she won, but she always came across as quite odd and distant, and after that, there’s been nothing. It’s been as if she never existed. There were hushed rumors that she had gone insane. Some said that she had killed herself, even.

“Yeah, Annie.” He looks nervously at the walls for a second, but then he shakes his head slightly, as if to himself. I’m suddenly terrified that I’ve let too much slip. He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter, Katniss. I’m sure the people who are listening in on us already know about her. She’s not really a well-kept secret. Annie’s mental health situation aside, a married prostitute would be less desirable for many of Finnick’s clients. It would break the illusion the customers have that he actually _wants_ to sleep with them. Not to mention that everyone knows the reapings are rigged, and if Finnick had a child, the odds most certainly would _not_ be in their favor. Finnick’s too handsome for his own good. No one fetches a higher price than he does.”

I never suspected the ugly truth that Finnick is hiding behind his perfect looks and flirtatious smile. I feel ashamed for judging him. “Cashmere, too?” My voice isn’t quite steady.

He sighs. “Yes, Cashmere, too.  Finnick, Gloss, Spar, Diamond, Enobaria, Cashmere and I are all money making machines for Snow.”

Cashmere is beautiful and strong. She's so different from the starving, shivering women I’ve seen standing outside Cray’s door at night. So different from what I myself looked like on that winter night when I was willing to go to Cray. But we’re no different, she and I.

“Do they hurt you?”

“Sometimes. It’s worse for the female victors, though, they are much more likely to get injured.”

“Is that why you bit me?”

Peeta takes a deep, shaky breath. “A lot of clients want something to remember me by. Something to show to their friends the next morning, to brag about. It’s just the way things work in the Capitol. I knew that I was with _you_ , even though it was hazy, but there were times when I slipped. I think that’s when it happened.”

Hearing that he has confused me with one of the women who pay for sexual favors against his will is almost more than I can bear.

“I told you once that I had no idea what I was doing, remember?” I nod. “Well, it’s true. I may know what I’m doing in bed.” His voice is bitter, and he chuckles and shakes his head slightly, as if to himself. “But I’ve never been in a _relationship_. The only people I’ve been with without money being involved, have been other victors. Cashmere, mostly.”

I look up at him, but I don’t know what to answer. His eyes meet mine, but he doesn’t say anything either. He abruptly turns around, leaves the kitchen, and a few seconds later, I hear the front door slam shut.

I don’t know where he sleeps. I lie awake in the darkness, listening for his steps outside, or the door, but there’s nothing. I stare into the darkness, trying to take in what Peeta told me, but I can’t. I _can’t_. What have I gotten myself into? The man that I was falling in love with, a kind, smart, complicated man, has secrets far worse than I could ever have imagined.

This is no longer just about me deciding whether or not I want to stay in this house, whether I can trust him ever again. If I decide that I want to acknowledge the feelings that were developing between us, feelings I have to admit to myself are still not gone despite everything that has happened, I’ll have to accept the fact that I’ll have to share Peeta with countless others.

What has years of forced prostitution done to him? Will he be able to function in a normal relationship at all? Not that this could be normal. If the two times we were together are any indication, I’m not so sure about that.

I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep at all, but at some point, I must drift off.

I’m walking down the corridor. It’s dark, but the door to the study is open, and the light there is on. I go inside. President Snow is sitting behind the heavy mahogany desk. There is a faint, but sickening scent of blood in the air, mingling with the scent of roses. It must come from the single white rose in President Snow’s lapel, but it must be genetically enhanced somehow, because no real rose reeks like that.

“Would you like to be in a real war?” Snow says. “Thousands of your people dead. Your loved ones... Gone.”

I don’t know what war Snow is talking about, but the hologram of my children on the desk tells me everything I need to know. The threat is real. The war is real. I’m unable to move, unable to answer his question, even unable to breathe. All I can do is stare into his pale, blue eyes.

I wake screaming. I switch on the light. I’m sweating, and I gasp for breath as my heart races. I try to calm my breathing as I stare up at the ceiling. The house is quiet. Peeta is gone, and thankfully, it doesn’t seem like my screams woke the children.

What did the Capitol do to the boy with the bread?

 


	19. A Town boy and a Seam girl - Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it’s been a while since I updated, and quite a few of you have asked me when I’m going to update. And now I have! Yay! Sorry it's taken so long, but here’s what I’ve been doing since the last update. In addition to the usual RL stuff such as work (very busy, I have a presentation at a conference in two days, ugh), having a cold (ugh again!) and having severe (but inexplicable) shoulder pain (triple ugh!), I worked on this chapter. I rewrote it. And rewrote it. And rewrote it again. Then, at long last, I sent draft 6(!) to Lbug84, who tore the chapter apart and rewrote it some more (in fact, she’s probably very close to being a co-writer on this chapter). Then I rewrote it yet again. And sent it back to Lbug84. 
> 
> And here we are.
> 
> And every time the chapter was rewritten, it also became longer. Sometimes by 500 words, sometimes by 1,000 words. The end result? A monster of a chapter at nearly 10,000 words. I ended up dividing this chapter into two parts, because it's still very much one chapter, not two. So this is obviously part one. I’ll post part two on Friday.
> 
> Thank you so much to Lbug84. You told me you hated me when I sent you this chapter *lol*, but I know you love me. ;) Love you too!

**Katniss POV**

I’m playing with Ivy in the garden. We’ve just come back from following Arrow to school. It’s a beautiful, warm day. It’s still summer, but I feel in the air that fall is coming.

Peeta didn’t come home last night. I don’t know where he is, or when he’s coming back.

Ivy is walking on somewhat unsteady legs. I wish Gale could see her now. He’d be so proud of his daughter. He’d throw her into the air and tickle her, and she’d laugh and squeal of joy. I’m torn between these two men - her father, who is not here to cherish this moment with me, and Peeta. The guilt I’ve felt over falling for Peeta and sharing his bed was already difficult to handle. What he told me last night though, shook me to the core. When he does come home, I have absolutely no idea what to say to him.

I hear Peeta’s heavy steps on the gravel behind me and I nearly sigh in relief. At least he’s come home. I turn around and look at him as he approaches. His face does not betray any emotion as he stops a couple of yards away from me and studies Ivy as she plays.

When Peeta sees her, he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t tickle her. He doesn’t throw her into the air. He doesn't do any of those things, because he's not her father. But when Ivy gives him a dandelion with her little hands, Peeta accepts it, says ‘thank you’ and smiles to her. There aren’t a lot of dandelions in bloom at this time of the year, but she still found one. Of all the flowers she could’ve chosen, of course it had to be a dandelion.

He looks at the flower in his hand. “She's growing up so fast,” he says to me. “When I left for the Capitol, Ivy was still a baby. Now she's walking.”

Ivy bends down to pick up another dandelion, but loses her balance and falls. She quickly stops crying, though, and wants to pick more flowers. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask him. We are both looking at Ivy instead of at each other. It's easier to talk to him when I don’t have to look directly at him.

“What difference would it have made?” He picks up Ivy’s pink ball and kneels down. She wobbles over to him and takes it from him, flowers apparently forgotten already.

“It could’ve made a difference to _me_. It could’ve made it easier to understand you.”

“I didn’t want you to understand me,” he says flatly. “Not that part of me, anyway. The fact that you didn’t, that you were so pure _,_ made it easier for me to pretend that what happened in the Capitol wasn’t real.”

“You could’ve told me. Sooner than you did.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “I wanted to, but I always found an excuse to put it off. I guess I was too ashamed.”

“You have no reason to ashamed.”

He shakes his head, chuckling softly. “I have every reason to be ashamed, Katniss. You don’t know what it’s like.”

"I understand better than you think.” I would do anything to protect my children. There was a dark winter night not too long ago, when I almost did.

Peeta turns to me. I can feel his gaze on me, but I don't meet his eyes. “Maybe you do. You have experienced the desperation that drives you to do it, but you don’t know what it does to you in the long run.” He sighs. “Look, Katniss, I don’t know what you want. You haven’t moved out, so I guess that means that you want to stay, though I can’t understand why.”

I don't answer. That’s a question I can’t answer, not even for myself.

 

* * *

 

We manage to hold it together in front of the children, but only just. I think Peeta's avoiding me as best as he can, and I drown myself in housework trying to do the same. He has dark rings under his eyes. I suspect he’s having nightmares again, although he doesn’t say anything about it. In fact, he doesn’t say much at all.

Arrow knows that something is wrong. Before Peeta left for the Capitol, the two of them played together nearly every day. Now Peeta either isolates himself in the room at the end of the corridor or he’s out. When he is around, usually for meals, he’s quiet and seems distracted. Being the seven-year-old that he is, Arrow thinks that he’s done something wrong. I try to tell him that he hasn’t, that Peeta is really busy, but he doesn't believe me. He doesn't understand.

Looking back, I wonder if I should have known. Or perhaps I _did_ know, but chose to ignore the depth of the situation? I knew that _something_ was wrong, of course. When I saw Peeta on TV, he looked and behaved very differently from the man I knew. I knew his drinking problem and drug abuse were connected to being a victor, but I thought they were caused by his traumatic experiences in the Hunger Games. I suppose the Games were a part of it, but I know now that he had more reasons to want to disconnect himself from reality. But there really was no way I could’ve understood that he was subjected to forced prostitution, was there? I'm still trying to wrap my head around it.

Knowing the truth does help me understand him, his reactions, and also what happened between us that night before he left for the Capitol. But it doesn’t help me figure out what to do, or where to go from here. I could take what appears to be the easiest way out – quit my job, move out, and try to forget all about him. Peeta said he’d provide for us, but I would never accept charity from him. I'm not sure that's the best course of action anyway. The Seam would be even worse for us than it was before, when we escaped last winter, because now everyone thinks that I’m Peeta Mellark’s whore. If it was hard for me to get a job before, I’m positively unemployable now. Another option is staying in this house, and Peeta and I could continue as we are: Not speaking, barely interacting, and only existing side by side. Lastly... I could forgive everything. The bruises have faded. The truth has been told. I could forgive him and pursue a relationship with him, knowing that I’ll have to share him with an unknown number of Capitolites.

All three are pretty shitty options.

 

* * *

 

Peeta is out again. After dinner, he said that he was going to check on Haymitch, and he hasn’t returned. I look at the time. It’s almost 11, and I should go to bed. I can’t sit up and wait for him. Knowing Haymitch and his sleeping habits, Peeta could be there all night. Peeta hasn’t been sleeping regularly since he came back from the Capitol either.

I’ve just taken my empty tea mug into to the kitchen, and I’m about to go upstairs, when he finally comes home. I'm near the stairs, turned away from him when I hear his voice.

“Hi.”

I turn around, my hand still on the banister. “Hi.” I watch him bend down to untie his shoelaces. He always double-knots them. “How was Haymitch?”

He stands, stretching his hands over his head and sighs. “He was drunk. He’s in pretty bad shape. I worry about him, Katniss.”

It’s the first time we’ve discussed anything of substance in days, since the talk we had in the garden. “Me too. I’ve seen men like him before, but most of them had miners’ lung too, which usually killed them before the alcohol had time to.”

Men in the Seam don’t usually grow old. If they aren’t killed in mining accidents, they will more often than not end up with miners’ lung. But Haymitch is a victor who never worked in the mines, so his lungs are just fine. All that’s required of him, is a month or so a year in the Capitol. The rest of the time, he’s free to do whatever he wants, and that generally includes drinking.

As if mentoring wasn’t bad enough, Snow demands even more of Peeta.

“I could pour out all his liquor, but he has bottles stashed away everywhere. I’d never find them all. And even if I did, he’d just go to the Hob and buy more. I can’t stop him from drinking.”

I shake my head. “No, you can’t. Is there any chance you could get him into a hospital in the Capitol?”

“Maybe. I could look into it.” He chuckles to himself. “At least the Capitol is good for something.”

“Well, they do have access to medical care that we don’t have here in 12.”

“That’s true.” He pauses. We’re still awkwardly standing at the bottom of the steps. “I’ve been thinking about what we talked about the other day.”

“What about it?” I ask. My voice just barely holds.

“You said that if you had known, it would have made it easier for you to understand me.” He clears his throat. “Do you _want_ to understand?"

I open my mouth to answer. To tell him I'm still not sure. But he scrubs his face with his hands and continues to speak. "If knowing more about what goes on in the Capitol makes it easier for you to understand, and if you want that, then I could tell you. I just don't want to keep anything from you anymore.”

His clenched fists and the pained look in his eyes tell me how difficult it is for him to make that offer. I’m afraid of what he might tell me, but I won't turn away from his offer when he’s finally reaching out to me. I try to smile. “Why don’t we sit down in the kitchen? Let’s not talk about this here.” I don’t want to go to the living room either. Sitting on the same couch where we had sex, while we talk about how he has sex with other women. _Clients_.

I sit down at the kitchen table. He gets us both a glass of water, but he doesn’t drink from his. He just holds it in his hands.

“Do you have any questions about what I’ve told you?” he begins. “You can ask me about anything you want. I won’t lie to you.” There’s an unspoken ‘anymore’ in the air.

I take a sip of my water and study him. He looks so defeated, so resigned. I don't want him to feel this way. I don't want him to feel judged or rejected.

"I don't know what to ask," I admit. "I've never been out of 12. I don't know how things work in the Capitol, so I wouldn't know where to begin."

He nods his head slowly. "Have you met anyone from the Capitol?"

"No."

“So you don’t really know much about them?" I shake my head. "The reverse is true too. Most people in the Capitol have never met anyone from the districts. All they know is what they see on TV, which isn’t a lot. They have more channels than we do here in 12, and there’s a lot of propaganda. The Capitolites don't really view people in the districts as... well, as people."

It confirms what I've already suspected. If they did, there wouldn't be any Hunger Games. "I guess that makes sense."

"Victors are different though,” Peeta explains. “We're their celebrities. The Capitolites think that we are exotic, that we are unpolished and rough, in a way. They admire that for some reason. They want us, they want pieces of us. They want to read stories about us in glossy magazines, they want to see us on TV, they want to be seen with us at parties, and some of them... want to be _with_ us."

"Oh."

“I'm trying to explain how Snow’s business works, the demand for it."

"So he makes you give the people what they want from you?"

“Yeah."

I swallow. “Is it like it is with Cray?”

“In a way I guess it is. But it’s put into a system, generating profit."

"I understand that. What I mean is do you have to go to their homes? Sleep in their beds?"

"No. They’ve built a hotel specifically for this purpose, and that’s where we stay, except during the Hunger Games, when we stay in the training center until we've lost our tributes."

"A hotel?" I grimace as I consider what the hotel in 12 looks like. We only have one, near the train station. The rooms are small and dimly lit... and can be rented by the hour.

"It's not like the hotel here," Peeta explains. He must've sensed my disgust. "It's actually beautiful, very stylish. There's a rooftop bar, a nightclub, and a restaurant, which are all popular with the Capitolites, including the ones who can’t afford the company of a victor. But it’s all veneer to hide that it’s actually a _brothel_.”

"A brothel?" I'm struggling to keep up with all the information he's giving me.

"Yeah, it works pretty much like one. I have my own suite, all the victors who are working do. The clients come to the hotel. I never go their houses, and I don't spend the night with any of them."

That's _almost_ a relief. “The clients come to your suite?”

He shakes his head. “No, thankfully, they don’t. That's the one place I can escape to. I never see clients there. There are designated rooms specifically built for them. There are different ones, with different settings and accessories. We choose from them, depending on the client’s wishes.”

“What can they wish for?”

He leans back in the chair. He looks at me and holds my eyes. “They can wish for anything they want. And we give it to them.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

“And if you don’t, they’ll kill your family?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” Peeta chuckles bitterly.

"Will they'll kill _me_?"

He doesn't answer for a long time. Too long. I wasn't sure how to ask this, or if I even wanted to, but it's out there now.

Peeta's expression hardens. His lips are pressed into a tight line as he nods his head once.

"Arrow?" I press. I can feel the desperation in my voice. "Ivy?"

Peeta sighs as he nods his head. I feel tears well up in my eyes.

"You do this to protect me, to protect us," I say. It wasn't a hard conclusion to draw, but saying it out loud weighs on both of us.

"That's what you and I do. We protect each other."

I'm not sure what he means. How do _I_ protect _him_? I want to scream at the unfairness of it all. I thought my children were out of danger now that we have food to eat. Apparently I was wrong, and I’m starting to realize just how naïve I’ve been. And Peeta? I don’t know how he’s been able to deal with this.

I look away, taking another small sip of my water. “Do your clients know that you’re forced to do this?”

“I don’t think so. Interpersonal relationships are different in the Capitol. Intimacy isn’t something that’s reserved for commitment. They're not inhibited. Even though our clients know that they pay money for our company, they still have this innocence when it comes to the districts and why the victors are entertaining them. I think it makes easier for them to believe that the money they pay doesn’t really have anything to do with it."

"That's not innocence, that's ignorance. That's - that's abuse."

"Well, whatever it is, they prefer to think that it's something I want. Especially the female clients.”

I blink. “Female?”

Peeta freezes.

“ _Female_ clients?" I repeat. He doesn’t answer. His body is tense, he looks very uncomfortable. “When you said ‘clients’, I thought… I assumed…” I’m unable to continue.

“…you assumed that they are all women?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“They’re not.”

“But you’re not…?” I can’t bring myself to say any of the awful words that they used at school, to describe men who sleep with men.

“No, I’m not.”

"And they still make you?"

"My personal preferences don't matter. There are drugs that help with-"

"Drugs?" I ask. _More_ drugs.

He sighs. “I know it’s hard to understand.”

My eyes are filling with tears, and I’m mortified that I’m about to start crying in front of him like this. He’s trying so hard to open up, to talk to me.

"You said you wouldn't take any more drugs."

"I know, but-"

"You promised."

"Katniss," he sighs again. "I still have to take _those_ drugs."

I blink and a tear escapes my eye. I look away.

"I have to do it to keep you all safe."

As I look at him across the kitchen table, it feels as if the abyss between us is wider than ever. The things he has experienced in the Capitol, the things that have changed him from the baker’s son who saved my life in the rain to the victor sitting across the table from me tonight, are impossible for me to understand.

He reaches across, putting his hand over mine. "I'm sorry."

 

* * *

 

There is someone I should’ve spoken to some time ago: the person responsible for me moving to the Victors’ Village in the first place. The person who has known about the Capitol, the drugs, and the prostitution from the very beginning.

So after following Arrow to school, I go to Prim’s, who agrees to look after Ivy for a few hours. She doesn’t ask any questions, but I know from the way she looks at me that she can tell how upset I am. When I go back to the Victors’ Village, I don’t take the usual route. Instead, I take the rarely used path through the Meadow, and enter Haymitch’s garden from the back, hidden from Peeta’s eyes.

The door is locked, but I know where Haymitch keeps the spare key. Peeta made him leave one under a rock. Feeling like a thief, I unlock the door, open it quietly, and quickly slip inside.

The house smells awful. The scent of alcohol floats through the air, mingled with mold, forcing me to wrinkle my nose. It seems to have deteriorated even more since the last time I was here, that night when I shed my clothes in front of him. It’s perhaps best not to think about that. I tread carefully. I don’t know what could be lying under all the clutter that I have no choice but to step on. I look around. I really shouldn’t startle Haymitch, it can be dangerous. Peeta mentioned once that his mentor always sleeps with a knife. 

I find Haymitch in the kitchen. He has passed out sitting on a kitchen chair, his head resting on the table. I look at the wreck of a man in front of me, and anger rises in me. I know this is the Capitol’s work. They have broken him, just like they broke Peeta, until there was only this tortured shell of a man left. A man who stays up all night because he’s too afraid to sleep in the dark. And even in the light of the day, the only way he can fall asleep is when he drinks until he passes out.

Poor Haymitch.

Then I throw a mug of water on him.

I quickly step back a couple of yards as Haymitch roars like a wild animal, and he’s instantly up on his feet, his right hand clutching a knife, ready to kill.

“It’s me!" I nearly shout. “Put the knife down.”

His eyes are foggy, he doesn’t seem to hear me.

“It’s me, Katniss Hawthorne. Put the knife down.” I speak slowly and very clearly.

The fog of sleep and alcohol seems to gradually lift, and he lowers his arm.

“What are you doing here, sweetheart?” he says.

He slumps back down on the chair, but he’s still clutching the knife. I dump all the junk on one of the other kitchen chairs down on the floor, and sit down. “I’m not your sweetheart,” I tell him. “Stop calling me that.” He tries to reach for a bottle, the only one on the table which isn’t either empty or shattered, but I quickly secure it. “No drinking. You’re going to sit, and you’re going to listen, and you’re going to answer my questions.”

It’s clear he instantly knows what I’m going to ask about. “It wasn’t my secret to tell, Katniss.” The sarcasm is gone from his voice. His eyes are bloodshot, and his skin has a yellowish tinge. I’ve seen that before in some of my mother’s patients. His liver isn’t working right.

“Well, the cat is out of the bag now.”

I study him. He may look older than he is and worn out from the bottle, but he’s still ruggedly handsome. I’ve seen photos from when he was a young victor. He was very attractive. In fact, he looked a bit like Gale did. They both had the same kind of somewhat dangerous Seam charm.

Women love that.

“Did they make you do it, too?”

“No. They tried to at first. But no.”

I open my mouth to ask him what he means by that, but he shakes his head, and the warning in his eyes is clear. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?” I ask him.

He sighs, his shoulders slump. “It started a few months after Peeta became a victor. It’s practically routine, at least when the victor is attractive. Almost all of them are, of course.”

“Did you know it would happen?”

“Before he won?” I nod. “Yes. I did. But I figured life working for Snow was better than no life at all, so I did everything I could to save his life in the arena. I’m not sure if I still believe that’s true, though.”

“Why not?”

"I’d never had a victor before, so I didn’t know just how terrible it was going to be. Peeta was only 16. He was a killer but he wept like a child at night when he woke up from his nightmares. He was just a boy who was madly in love with a girl – you, of course – who he had never even dared to talk to." Haymitch narrows his eyes. "He was a virgin, too. I hoped he would work up the courage to court you after he came home to 12 – if he did, then maybe he could’ve done something about that virgin status before his return to the Capitol for his first fall season. I knew what was waiting for him, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him, he was so traumatized already. But when he came home, you were with Gale.” I open my mouth to speak, but he lifts his hand to silence me, and continues. “I’m not saying you should feel guilty about it, Katniss. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

He gets up from the chair. “I need to get some more white liquor. Want to walk with me to the Hob? If you don’t, I might end up in a ditch somewhere with a broken neck.”

“Sure.” I know it’s an excuse to get away from the bugs I assume are in his house, too, but his words also seem like a warning. We leave through the back door, and we take the same path around the back of the Victors’ Village that I took here.

When we’re a safe distance from the Village, Haymitch continues where he left off.

“Do you want to know why the Capitol couldn’t force me?”

“No," I admit. But he still tells me.

“Snow made the mistake of killing off my entire family, including my girlfriend, as punishment. He felt that my appearance in the Hunger Games made the Capitol look foolish.” I shudder. So that’s what happened to his girl. That’s why he’s all alone. “They didn’t have anyone to blackmail me with. It was sort of a trade-off. There was no one left to love, but at least I didn’t have to fuck Capitolites. The closest relationship I have in the world is to the bottle.”

“And to Peeta,” I say softly.

“And eventually to Peeta,” he admits. There is a long pause. “When I found out that Peeta’s first season had been scheduled, I did the only thing I could to help him; I called Cashmere. I only went to the Capitol for the Hunger Games, so I knew that Peeta would spend a lot of time in the Capitol without me. I also knew there was only one way for him to survive what was ahead, and that was to adapt. That meant bonding with the other victors who were in the same situation. I’d known Cashmere for years, and we got along pretty well.” 

“I could tell you were friends when she was here.”

“Yeah, we are. That's why she promised to help and protect him, and it’s a promise she continues to keep."

“I had no idea," I confess. “I knew something was wrong. That there was something he didn’t tell me. But… this?”

He shrugs. “How could you possibly have suspected?”

Haymitch leaves the road, and I follow him. We walk to the river, but not to where he took me before, where he left me to grieve for Gale. He sits down under a tree and takes out a bottle from inside his jacket. Clearly, going to the Hob to buy white liquor was just an excuse. He offers it to me, but I shake my head. “Things don’t work the same way in the Capitol, Katniss,” he says. “People are really sheltered in 12. There may be a few children born out of wedlock every year, but that’s about as far as scandal goes here. 12 is a pretty conservative society. That’s not exactly a word that can be used to describe the Capitol.”

“Peeta told me the same thing,” I say.

“Well, he knows better than anyone.” He studies my face closely. “What exactly did he tell you?”

I grit my teeth. “He told me about the hotel. And that he has male clients.”

He sighs. “There are a lot of things that are viewed as unacceptable or immoral in 12 that are normal in the Capitol. Men sleeping with men, or women sleeping with women, doesn't strike anyone as strange.” He takes a swig from his bottle. “And if it’s a voluntary thing, hey, I’ve got no problem with it. In fact, it’s something the good people of 12 should probably open up to more. But the problem is, when you’re one of Snow’s prostitutes, voluntary is no longer a word that exists in your vocabulary. That makes the situation very different.”

"Prostitute," I repeat. I hate the word. I hate using it to describe Peeta. “How can he even _do_ that? Sleep with men. He told me that he’s not…” Again, I’m unable to use any of those derogatory words.

“Gay?” Haymitch asks. I’ve never heard that word before, but I suppose it’s a Capitol word meaning the same thing. I nod. “There are drugs that help him perform,” Haymitch explains.

I grimace. “I know. He told me.” I hate the idea of him taking drugs. Any drugs.

“In addition to the drugs, the victors have certain techniques that they use when necessary. Both the men and the women.” I don’t think I want to know any of the specifics about those ‘techniques'. "People in the Capitol like all kinds of shit. Some are into sleeping with more than one person at a time. Three, four, five… Your wallet is the limit.” My head is spinning. “Some like toys. Other like whips." I shake my head, I need him to stop. "Or piss. Weird clothes. Sex in public places. Brother fucking sister like-” Haymitch cuts himself short.

“What did you say?” Obviously he didn’t mean to let that slip.

“Nothing.”

“Brother _fucking_ sister?” I look at him, but he won’t meet my eyes. He stares at the river instead. It’s gray, like the fall sky. Like his eyes.

“Yeah.”

“Snow makes Cashmere and Gloss sleep together?” They are the only victor siblings.

Haymitch looks really uncomfortable now. “Yeah.”

I think of the stunning, glamorous woman I met this summer. The way she was almost possessive when it came to Peeta. Cashmere was so self-confident. She seemed to know everything, like she could handle any situation. She was beautiful, deadly, smart. Snow forces her to sleep with her own _brother_?

“Why?”

“People in the Capitol like to watch them. Some of them like to participate, too.”

I feel bile rising in my throat. I’m starting to regret asking Haymitch about this.

“Look, Katniss, I’m sorry for dragging you into this,” he says apologetically. “I’ve kept an eye on you over the years, until it was pretty clear that Peeta was too far gone to dream about being with you anymore. That’s when he gave up hope, I think, and from then on, and I could tell that he was slipping. I just didn’t know what to do about it. But when I ran into you that night, when you were on your way to Cray’s... I just couldn’t let you do it. So I got you a job, and I got someone to look after Peeta, and I thought it was a perfect arrangement."

“I guess you’re right,” I mutter.

“I owe you an apology, though,” Haymitch says. “I didn’t think about the possible consequences when I asked you to come with me that night. I never wanted for anyone to get hurt.” He gets up, a bit unsteady on his feet.

I silently watch him walk away.

I sit by the river for a while before I go back to Prim's. My mother joins us, and she’s brought some fresh bread from the bakery for lunch. She doesn’t say anything about what, if anything, Mrs. Mellark said to her. Before we sit down to eat, I unbutton my blouse and offer Ivy my breast. I don’t know if it has anything to do with the general stress I’m under, or if it would’ve happened anyway – but Ivy refuses, like she’s done for days now. She seems completely disinterested, no matter what I do. Objectively, I know it’s not a disaster. She’s eaten solid food for months, and I have more than enough to give to her now.

Emotionally, it’s hard for me, though. It feels like she’s not only rejecting my milk, but _me_ as a mother as well. I give up my effort to nurse her. She sits on my lap as I offer her a piece of bread instead. She doesn't see the tears that roll down my cheek.

“I know it feels like the end of the world right now, Katniss, but it’s not," Prim says, trying to comfort me. “Look at her.” She nods over to Ivy, who eating bread with a healthy appetite. Ivy’s round, little cheeks and chubby arms are such a contrast to what she looked like just seven or eight months ago. “She’s well fed and happy. I know that you wanted to nurse her longer, but it hasn’t got anything to do with you as a mother. Ivy’s not rejecting _you_.” She smiles. “You’re hardly the first woman who’s shed tears over this.”

"I know, but I didn't cry when Arrow stopped," I explain.

"Then what's different this time?"

I wipe my tears. "It's hard to explain, but as long as my body belonged to her, then it still belonged to _him_ in a way, too." To Gale. My body doesn't belong to either of them anymore. Our baby, the one Gale knew, isn't a baby anymore. She’s a toddler now. We're all moving on.

“Katniss, you did the very same thing when you were her age," Mother says. "I cried for a week.”

“I did?” I chuckle, despite my tears. “I hope she doesn’t turn into a mini Katniss. I was hoping she’d get more of Gale’s disposition.” I almost smile at how easily I said his name.

“Ivy is and will always be herself, her own little person. You don’t have to worry about her, she’s doing great.” Mother pauses. “There’s more though, right?”

"I don't know what you mean." It’s not true. I do know.

“It’s not just Ivy,” Prim adds.

Hesitantly, I shake my head. “No, it’s not.”

“I saw the way you looked at Peeta. Before he left for the Capitol.”

I can’t stifle my gasp, and I look up at her. “Mother…”

She smiles a tired smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Everyone’s seen it, Katniss,” she says softly. “You’ve never been able to hide your emotions. Why do you think people suddenly started resenting you when they didn’t at first? People in the Seam might have been willing to overlook a starving woman selling her body to survive. Many of us have been forced to do that. But they’re a lot less likely to accept what appears to be a real romantic relationship between a victor and a Seam widow. Especially so soon after Gale’s passing.”

She’s right. That must’ve been why the whispers got progressively louder as the time passed. Why the stares colder and less hidden. People didn’t see us together often, but it happened. Trips to the Town to get food. Following Arrow to school. “I guess it doesn’t help that he’s from the Town.”

“No, it doesn’t. The stigma is always going to be there.” My mother knows a lot about stigma. It’s been more than 30 years, and it’s been more than two decades since she was widowed, but people still remember. In the eyes of the district, she’s always going to be the Town girl who married a miner.

“I know that something’s happened between you two,” my mother says. She speaks slowly, as if she’s weighing her words carefully. “You don’t have to tell me what is wrong if you don’t want to. But if you want to talk, I’m here, okay?”

“Thank you,” I say. But I’m not going to tell her. We have mended our broken relationship over the last ten years or so, but I still don’t trust her, not fully.

Prim and I share a look. She knows, and she's there for me. Right now that's all the support I need.

 

* * *

 

I wake to a terrible scream. I stumble out of bed, and before I really know what’s happening, I’m already out in the hallway, on my way to his room. My hand is on the doorknob when I hesitate, and for the first time I am sufficiently awake to consider what I’m doing.

Should I go in? I remember the last time I was in Peeta’s bed. He was confused. He wasn’t really there. He thought I was someone else, and he hurt me.

On the other side of the door, he’s not screaming anymore, but he whimpers, as if he’s in agony. I won't walk away from this. From _him_.

I open the door. He’s in his bed, his face is turned away from me, towards the open window. But I can see how his entire body is trembling. Maybe I need to try to wake him up. I sit down on the edge of the bed and touch his shoulder.

“Peeta?” I say. He doesn’t react. “Peeta!” I shake him harder. Suddenly, his eyes snap open. For a second, they are foggy, desperate. But then they clear.

“Katniss,” he says, his voice strangled. I reach out for him, and I put my arms around him, and he pulls me close, so close I can barely breathe. His body is still shaking as I stroke his back slowly, as if he’s a child. His body is damp with sweat, I can feel it even through the t-shirt he sleeps in.

Finally, when his breathing has calmed down and he’s no longer shivering, he releases me. “Thank you,” he says. He looks down, as if he’s embarrassed. I look at the clock on the bed stand. It’s 3:02 AM. I wonder if he’s going to get any more sleep tonight, or if he's too distraught and will stay up until the sun rises. The fear that lingers in his bloodshot eyes gives me the answer to my question.

When we slept in the same bed, long ago, after he’d found me crying on the bathroom floor, he said that he didn’t have any nightmares.

“Do you want me to stay?”

His blue eyes widen in panic. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“To sleep,” I clarify.

“I don't want to hurt you again,” he whispers.  His face twists with guilt. "I couldn't take it."

“You won’t.” He’s _here_ with me now.

He nods and lies down, and I lie next to him. We’re not close, not touching. But we are in the same bed. I try to switch off the light, but he stops me. “Can we keep it on?”

I’m not used to sleeping with the light on, but I don’t object. He lies on his back and stares up at the ceiling. I can tell he tries to force himself to stay awake, but he doesn't last long. He must be exhausted, because very soon, he drifts off to sleep. I follow him sooner than I expect.

 

* * *

 

When I wake, the first thing I notice is a warm body next to me in bed. The morning sun is shining in through the window. I don’t remember waking again, so we must have slept through the rest of the night. Peeta lies much closer to me now – we have both gravitated towards each other during the course of the night. He's curled up next to me, facing me. He’s still asleep, his breathing is steady and calm.

I’m in too deep. But I have nowhere else to go, and neither does Peeta.

I hear Ivy babbling through the wall. As I try to slip quietly out of bed, his eyes fly open and he sits up, abruptly. “Good morning,” I whisper, as I study his face. “Did you sleep well?” He nods slowly, still looking dazed.

On the other side of the wall, Ivy is clearly becoming impatient.

“I have to go.” I climb out of bed and go to take up my daughter. Only after we’ve both gone downstairs do I realize that I haven’t felt this rested in a long time.


	20. A Town boy and a Seam girl - Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the second part of chapter 19! Thank you so much to Lbug84 for betaing (she actually wrote a pretty big part of this chapter) and Chelzie for prereading! 
> 
> Lbug84 and I have just posted chapter one of a canon divergence fic set in District 13, written in Peeta’s POV. Peeta struggles to regains his memories after being hijacked, as well as figuring out who Katniss really is to him. It’s called Behind the wall, it’s posted both on AO3 and FFN – go check it out! On FFN it’s posted on our joint account, search for LbugMJFF and you’ll find it there.

Peeta waits until I've come back from following Arrow to school and have put Ivy down for a nap before he talks about last night.

“Thank you for helping me yesterday.”

“You’re welcome.” I put my book down. He said he'd answer my questions. He said he’d tell me the truth. “Did you dream about your Games last night?” I hedge.

If he understands that I’m testing him, he doesn’t give any indication. His answer is immediate and without hesitation. “Yeah. That’s what I dream about most of the time.” I think about the paintings in the room at the end of the corridor, which gave me a small, terrifying window into his nightmares. “They are usually versions of the same dream, but last night it was… different."

"Different, how?" I ask.

"I dreamt that you were in the Hunger Games, too. Cato was out to get you, get us – but mostly you. We were in a cave and I was very sick. I knew I was dying and you knew it, too. You tricked me into eating some sleep syrup so you could go to the Feast to get some medicine for me and then, when I woke up, you were lying there next to me in a pool of blood. I thought that I had lost you.” Dreaming about losing me caused him to scream like _that_? The scream sounded almost otherworldly. “But I slept through the rest of the night, I mean for real, after you…” His voice trails off. He clears his throat. “Why did you do that for me, Katniss?” he asks.

I don’t quite know how to answer that question. “I talked to my mother yesterday,” I begin haltingly. “She helped me put some things into perspective.”

“What kind of things?”

“You. Me. Why people in 12 react so strongly to the idea of us being together.”

"Us together," he repeats.

I take a deep breath. “Yeah. You asked me before what I wanted. I couldn’t answer your question, because I didn’t even know myself. But I do know that why I’m not leaving and why I’m staying are two different things.” He looks confused, and I try to explain. “I don’t leave because I don’t really have anywhere else to go. But why I’m staying… that’s different.”

His blue eyes don’t leave mine, he doesn’t even blink. “Then why are you staying?”

"I’m not sure."

“Okay.” He looks down. I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. Neither does he. I serve him lunch and we eat in silence. After only one helping of lamb stew, Peeta drops his fork on his plate, pushes away from the table and announces that he's going to check on Haymitch. He's obviously upset, but I don't object. I clear the dishes. I drown out the clanging of metal against porcelain and get lost in my thoughts.

Peeta asked me why I'm staying and I don't have an answer for him. But I know someone who might be able to help me figure out what that is. Cashmere. Haymitch offered me some insight, but Cashmere knows him in a different way. She’s there in the hotel, so she knows the business from within. Haymitch doesn’t.

I dry my hands and walk over to the phone in the hallway. I rarely ever use this thing. There are so many bells and whistles, and who would I call anyway? Hardly anyone in the Seam has a phone. But I know there's some sort of auto dial feature. I lift the receiver and push the button labeled "Cashmere." It's lunch time here, and there's only an hour or two difference between 12 and District 1, so I don't think I'll disturb her. It rings only once before she answers.

"Peeta, hi. Hang on a second, okay?" There's a shuffling sound and I guess she must be pulling the phone away from her ear. I didn't even have a chance to identify myself. "Gloss, watch her. It's Peeta... Yes, I will." The phone shuffles again and when it stops, her voice is clear again. "Gloss says 'hi.' How are you, honey?"

"It's me," I say. "It's, um. It's-"

"Katniss." Her voice changes. It's tense, hesitant.

"Yeah."

She clears her throat. "How are you?"

"I'm well. I'm keeping busy."

"Happy to have Peeta back home?"

 _Sort_ _of_. I bring the receiver of the phone to my chest and rest my head against the wall. I try to remind myself why I've called her.

"Katniss?" she asks, though I'm not sure how I can hear her. I lift my head and look at the phone. And I gasp as I see a face on the large display screen in front of me.

"Oh!"

"What's the matter?"

"I didn't know this could-"

"Make video calls?"

"Yeah." I look at the receiver in my hand. "What do I do with this?"

"You can just put it down."

I put the receiver down and take a step back. I quickly fix my hair and straighten out my dress. "I didn't expect to be seen."

"You look nice," she says with a smile. The corners of her mouth wrinkle and that's when I realize that she's not wearing any lipstick. Looking at her more closely, she's not wearing any makeup at all.

"So do you," I tell her. And she does. She looks older, like she's in her 40s. Beautiful. And real.

"How are Arrow and Ivy?"

"They're good. Great, actually. Ivy's just started to walk." I notice movement behind her. It takes me a second to realize that it must be her brother Gloss, because he looks so different from when I’ve seen him on TV. Or perhaps it’s the situation that’s making it difficult to connect the dots. He's on his hands and knees, making growling sounds as he crawls behind a little girl who’s running away from him, laughing. Gale used to do that with Arrow. They called it _playing_ _bear_. "How are things with you?"

She looks over her shoulder at the child playing behind her. Her eyes slowly drift back to me. "Nothing new here."

I nod my head.

"Katniss, was there something you wanted to talk about?"

"No," I answer too quickly.

"So you just called to say hi?" She obviously knows I’d never do that.

"No," I sigh. "There is something I wanted to ask you."

"Oh?"

When I don't continue, she wraps her arms around herself. "I'm glad you called. It's nice to hear from you. I was worried after the last time we saw each other that you'd-"

"I know about the hotel," I blurt out. She stops, pursing her lips. "I mean, Peeta _told_ _me_ about the hotel," I clarify. "I know what he –what you - what the victors do there. I know everything." My last words are barely a whisper. I don’t mean to, but my eyes dart to Gloss, and I can tell she understands that I know about that, too.

"I'm happy to hear that Peeta's finally talking to you."

"Yeah, I guess he is. What I don't know, I mean, what he _didn't_ tell me, is if..." I trail off.

"If what?" She presses.

"If you and Peeta _had_ to... Or if you _wanted_ to."

"Both, I guess. I mean, I was the first one that he-"

"You were his _first_?" Somehow that hurts more than anything.

She looks away. "I think you should talk to Peeta about this."

"He didn’t tell me that _._ ”That hurts, too. Does he still not trust me?

“How could he even begin to tell you everything? There’s just so much. I don’t think there are words to describe it all." She shakes her head. "It's different when we're in the Capitol."

"You're there together," I remind myself. "Do you stay in his suite?"

"I used to. And sometimes he stayed in mine, too."

"But not anymore?"

She shakes her head. "No. Why are you asking me this?"

"Because I'm trying to understand what it's like, what he goes through. Why he..." I trail off again.

"Katniss, he loves you." Her voice is soft now. I look back up and meet her eyes. "He didn't mean to hurt you." I absentmindedly bring my fingertips to my neck, to where he _did_ hurt me, even if he didn't mean to. “He told me what happened. Not all the details, of course, but enough for me to understand what he’d done, and why he was so upset when he came to the Capitol. I’m sorry to say that my own reaction wasn’t what he needed at all.”

“What did you do?”

“I barely spoke to him for a month.”

“Oh.”She was that angry with him? She must care more about me  - or him? - than I thought. “We made up before he left, though. I told him that he had to start talking to you, and clearly he has.”

"I’m not sure how I can live with it,”I confess. “Knowing what he has to do to keep us safe?"

 Cashmere sighs. “Peeta would have to do it anyway, Katniss. To protect his parents, to make sure Snow doesn't take the bakery away from them. Or worse, kill them or his brothers. Or his nephews."

That's right. Peeta has two nephews, whom he never sees.

"Nothing has changed for him, really.” But it has. And the look on her face betrays her words. She knows everything has changed. "What's most important is that you understand that it doesn't mean he doesn't love you."

That’s the part I’m still trying to make sense of. "What do I do?" I ask.

"That's up to you. You're still there, in his house, so I guess that means you forgive him."

"I don't have anywhere else to go," I admit.

"I don't believe that. I think-" She stops herself and shakes her head.

"What do you think?"

"I think you fell in love with him, too. Didn’t you?”Her voice is surprisingly gentle. I look away, breathing very slowly in an attempt to try and stay in control. I don’t answer for a long time. Cashmere doesn’t repeat herself. She waits until I’m ready to answer. “Yes,”I finally whisper.

Have you told him?” I shake my head. “Why not?”

Because I was widowed barely a year ago. Because now I'm the town whore. Because the man I love is so broken. I look up at her, biting my bottom lip. “I don’t know."

“I don’t blame you,” she says. “It’s a lot to handle. Peeta lied to you. He didn't mean to, but he did hurt you, and now Snow is using you and the children to keep Peeta under control.”

Again, her eyes drift to the child playing behind her. I wonder who she is. There's something about her. Something that is different.

"Why does he tell you so much?"

"We’re kindred," she says with a shrug.

"What the hell does _that_ mean?"

Her smirk fades when she sees that she's touched a nerve. "Whatever we were, it's over, okay? Just give him a chance, if that's what you want, and I know he'll do right by you."

"How can he?"

"Katniss!" I hear Peeta's voice coming from the kitchen. He must’ve come in through the back door. What is he doing back so soon? He usually stays at Haymitch’s much longer than this.

"In here!" I call back. Looking back at the screen, I can see a sad smile on Cashmere's face.

"You should go," she says. "You can call me again later if you want to, okay?"

The call ends, and only seconds later, Peeta comes into the hallway. He’s short of breath, like he’s been running, and he starts speaking before I have the chance to say anything. "Katniss, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to just storm out like that. It's just that you said you're only here because you don't have anywhere else to go, and I don't understand why you're still-"

“Peeta, stop,” I tell him. He looks from me over to the screen, which now shows an abstract, colorful image instead of Cashmere’s living room. It’s usually black.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you; I didn’t know that you were on the phone.”

I am _never_ on the phone, except that one time when I spoke with him, and he knows it. He doesn't ask me who I was speaking with. But I tell him. I don't want to keep anything from him anymore either.

“I just spoke with Cashmere.”

"Oh!" His eyes widen in surprise. “I told you that she and I aren’t…”

I cut him off. “I know, Peeta. I believe you. I just needed to talk to her. She knows a side of you that I don’t.” I take a deep breath. “I know the answer to that second question now. I’m staying because of _you_. Because of what we were _before_ you left for the Capitol."

"I don't understand." He has a look of disbelief on his face. I take a few steps closer to him.

"I know who you are. Not the victor, but the man from 12. The real you. The baker, the painter who always double knots his shoelaces, and likes to sleep with the window open.” I reach out my hand and touch his cheek gently.

“I know what they are all saying about us, about you,” he says. “The victor and his…” He grimaces, clearly not wanting to say the word out loud. “And that’s not what you are to me at all.” He tucks a strand of hair that has escaped from my braid behind my ear.

“Neither of us is what they think.”

“I am a victor,” he objects.

“Yes. But it’s not who you _are_. I know that’s how you’ve self-identified for so long. But that identity was forced on you, and it’s destructive. It’s tearing you apart.” We’ve leaned closer to each other. His breath is hot against my neck. Something is flaring in my belly. I can feel my heart beating wildly in my chest.

"I want you, Katniss. But I know I'm not good for you."

“That's for me to decide, isn’t it? Besides, it’s too late now. We’re here, and we’re not going anywhere.” I look up at him. His eyes are nearly black, the heat that seems to radiate off his body is making me dizzy. “Would you like to sleep in my bed tonight? I sleep better with you in my bed, too,” I admit. I don’t usually have nightmares the way he does, but his presence does help me sleep deeper and more peacefully. His fingers intertwining with mine are his answer.

That night, after the children are asleep, we share a cup of tea on the couch. We sit close together, our knees touching, until it's time to go upstairs. I go to the bathroom first and put on a nightdress. It’s not fancy, but it’s the only one I own. I return to my bedroom, and find Peeta sitting on the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees. He looks up as I enter, but I can’t read his expression. I can't help but blush.

I get into bed, but he doesn’t follow. He hasn’t even gotten undressed. “Take off your clothes if you want," I suggest. "I won’t look. I promise.” I turn my back to him, and don’t move until I feel his weight on the mattress, and the heat of his body under the duvet.

“Goodnight,” I say quietly.

“Goodnight.”

He closes his eyes and within minutes, he’s fast asleep. The light on the nightstand table is on, like last night. I lie there for a while, looking at him. His features are relaxed. A twitch goes through his body, his hand jerks for a second, followed by his legs. Then he’s calm again. I study his features closely. No, I don’t think it was a nightmare. His breathing is calm and even.

It’s actually kind of nice to keep the lights on. It gives me a chance to look at him. Peeta’s face is the last thing I see before I fall asleep, too.

 

* * *

 

When I wake up, I’m enveloped in heat. Peeta’s heat. My right arm is resting over his waist, and my knees are fitted behind his. Through his t-shirt, my cheek is pressed against his strong, muscular back. I lie there for a few minutes, drinking in his scent. Then I realize that he’s already awake. He’s breathing too fast for someone who’s not asleep.

He must have realized that I’ve woken up, too, because he turns around so that he’s lying on his other side, facing me. His face is suddenly so close to mine. He blinks against the morning sun.

“Good morning,” he says.

“Good morning.”

I don’t quite know why I do it, but I simply can’t resist. Perhaps it’s his sleepy, blue eyes, or the way his impossibly long eyelashes catch the sun’s rays. Or perhaps it’s the dizzying scent of him. I lean forward ever so slightly, and it’s enough for our lips to meet. His body stiffens against mine for a few seconds, but then he relaxes. An early morning kiss shouldn’t be as sweet as this.

“How long have you been up?” I ask him after our lips part.

“A little while. I couldn’t think of a way of getting out of bed without waking you.” I blush. No wonder, considering the way I was pressed against him in my sleep. “Don’t worry. I didn’t mind.” He smiles, and I smile back. He moves to get out of bed.

“Where are you going?” I ask him.

“I was thinking about baking some bread.” He runs his hand through his hair.

“Sounds like a good idea.” My smile widens.


	21. Katniss Hawthorne v. District 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you as excited about Mockingjay Part 1 as I am?! Here’s another chapter of TMW to get you through the weekend (I have tickets for the premiere at a minute past midnight!). There are only three regular chapters left now (I might split one of them), plus an epilogue. And things are finally heating up. You have been warned. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much to Lbug84 for betaing, holding my hand, and for just being you. 
> 
> I would also like to thank everyone who’s commented or reviewed – I haven’t been able to answer all of you, and I’m sorry. But please know that I do read and cherish every single review. Thank you. You have no idea how inspiring it is to hear from you.
> 
> Lbug84 and I will be updating When I Go tomorrow on AO3 – check it out! Turkish!Katniss is Gale’s widow in WIG too, but that’s pretty much the only thing WIG and TMW have in common. I’m very excited about this update, which is going to break your heart. I promise.
> 
> And because we’re all so excited about Mockingjay these days, check out Behind the wall, too – a Mockingjay canon divergence fic, written in hijacked!Peeta’s POV.

We sleep in the same bed every night. It’s not just to ward off his nightmares anymore.

As the days pass, our limbs become increasingly intertwined. Our bodies are pressed against each other, not only when we wake up in the morning, but before we fall asleep, too. I revel in the scent of him as I press my nose against his neck. His hands travel over my back, stroking me gently. Not like a lover, but not quite like a friend, either.

My skin is on fire where he’s touched me. I’ve never been this _aware_ of my body, and I don’t quite know what to do about it. I know that I want to feel him, but I don’t quite know what to do. We have been together before, twice. But what should have been _intimacy_ , which usually brings a couple closer together, ended up almost tearing us apart. We have a chance to fix things now. We need to get it right this time.

 

* * *

 

I follow Arrow to school. He doesn’t really talk that much about his classmates these days. I had a meeting with the principal two weeks ago, but I’m still worried the other children might be picking on him. I see my son walk over to some of the boys in his class who are playing in the schoolyard. I want to stay longer to watch him, to make sure he’s alright, but I’m afraid I’ll look too conspicuous. If the other children notice, it could only make it worse for him. I can’t help but notice the looks I’m already getting from some of the other mothers, though. Not one of them says hello to me.

I don’t really want to face any more gossiping housewives right now, but I have a few errands to run in the Town, so I don’t really have any choice. I’ve only walked a few hundred yards when I run into Posy. I haven’t seen her since Reaping Day. She looks much more mature than she did just three months ago. She is an adult now, with a future – perhaps that’s why?

“Posy!” I can’t hide my surprise.

“Katniss.” She greets me with a smile.

“It’s good to see you,” I tell her. “I haven’t seen you in ages.” It's my fault that we don't see each other, but she doesn't place blame, at least not out loud.

“It’s been too long,” she agrees.

“What are you doing in this part of the Town?” Posy doesn’t have any reason to be near the school anymore.

“I was hoping you’d be here, actually,” she says. She clears her throat nervously, but doesn’t say anything else.

“I have a few errands in the Town, if you’d like to join me?” She nods gratefully. I wonder what’s going on. Why would Posy seek me out? Whatever it is that she wants to talk to me about, it must be important. Important enough for her to be seen in public with me.

“I just wanted to tell you that I’m… I’m getting married tomorrow.”  

I’m surprised to hear that her wedding is coming up so soon. I knew she was planning to get married in the fall, but I had hoped to hear of it earlier than the day before. I guess it goes to show how far I’ve drifted from the Hawthornes.

I force myself to smile. I am happy for her. I truly am.  “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” She smiles back, but I’m not quite sure if her smile is natural, either. “The toasting is on Sunday.” All Seam toastings are on Sundays, because it’s the only day miners have off from work. The groom will usually get a day off from work to sign the marriage certificate in the Justice Building, but most couples have the toasting on the following Sunday so that the other men in the family can attend. A couple isn’t really considered to be married before the toasting in the eyes of 12.

She pauses. “I, uh… wondered if you and the children wanted to come to the toasting? It’s at two o’clock, at my mother’s house.”

‘You and the children.’ That does clearly not include Peeta. It would be inappropriate for him to be at my sister-in-law’s toasting, especially when her brother has been gone for less than a year, but I’m surprised by my sudden urge to have Peeta by my side at a family function. To be with him, not only in the privacy of the Victors’ Village, but in public, too. But I know that we can’t.

“We would love to,” I say. “Is there anything you’d like us to bring? A wedding cake, perhaps?” It’s tradition in 12 that instead of a present, which no one can really afford, everyone brings food for the party, which the couple can’t really afford to buy. It’s a win-win situation for everyone. I’m not very good at baking, but perhaps Peeta could help me.

“That would be great, thank you.”

“How many have you invited?” I need to know how many mouths to feed.

“Around 30.”

We’re in the town square now, where there are more people. A few people smile and nod at us. Well, at Posy, mostly. Most people don’t greet us at all, even though I know many of them. I’ve traded with them, or gone to school with them or their siblings. Instead of dwelling on it, I tell Posy that I’m going to the butcher and to the tailor, to pick up some new clothes for Arrow. He’s growing so fast.

“He’s going to be tall like Gale,” Posy smiles.

“Yeah, I think he will. He’s the spitting image of his father.”

A small group of women are standing near the bakery, which is right next to the butcher. I don’t realize until it’s too late that one of the women is Mrs. Mellark. Her blue eyes, so similar in color to her son’s, yet so cold, instantly zoom in on me, and our eyes meet. I can’t pretend as if I haven’t seen her.

“Good day, Mrs. Hawthorne.”

There is no way I can walk past her without stopping now. “Good day Mrs. Mellark,” I smile what I hope looks like a genuine smile, but I have a feeling I’m failing miserably. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Mrs. Mellark has four friends with her, and they are all looking at Posy, Ivy and me. But mainly, they look at me. I straighten my back. They may think that I’m a whore, but I’ll never apologize for anything to these vultures.

Mrs. Mellark’s lips curl up in what is probably supposed to be a smile, but looks more like a sneer. “Things are well in the Victors’ Village, I trust?”

“Yes, they are,” I answer. Thankfully, my voice is steady and calm, even though that’s not how I feel on the inside.

“Will you please tell my son that I hope he will pay us a visit in the bakery soon? We haven't seen him in weeks.”

She wants to see Peeta. She must be running low on money. She certainly doesn't miss him. “I will, Mrs. Mellark,” I say politely.

There’s an uncomfortable silence, and I’m about to mutter a goodbye when Mrs. Mellark surprises me by turning to Posy. “Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials, Miss Hawthorne,” she says, and there’s something about her smile that I don’t like.

“Thank you,” Posy answers nervously.

“Hasty marriages seem to be the norm in the Hawthorne family,” Mrs. Mellark says.

I furrow my brow. “Hardly,” I answer. “Posy and Slate have planned their toasting for months. As did Gale and I.”

"That's true." Mrs. Mellark actually laughs. “You were an 18-year-old bride, but at least you didn’t get married with a bastard in your belly.” I hear Posy trying to stifle a gasp beside me, and I suddenly understand why I didn’t hear of the toasting until today.

I need to get Posy out of here. This conversation can only get worse.

“I will convey your message to your son, Mrs. Mellark,” I say. “It was a pleasure to see you.” The latter is obviously a lie. As I turn away, I realize that I’m not sure whether I’ll tell Peeta about this meeting, so the former might be a lie, too. “Have a nice day.”

We make our escape. Posy follows me into the butcher’s shop, and unsurprisingly, she doesn’t buy anything. She doesn’t say a word, and she looks pale. Now that I think about it, perhaps going to the butcher’s wasn’t such a good idea. I could never stand the smell of raw meat when I was pregnant, either.

Posy is visibly relieved when we’re outside in the fresh air. “Why don’t we go to the Seam?” I suggest. “I could accompany you home. You don’t look well.”

She nods gratefully. We walk in relative silence. We don’t talk until we are inside of their house. I let Ivy down on the floor, and she instantly runs over to the corner, where the toy box is. I’m amazed that she remembers, it’s been months since we were here.

“Are congratulations in order?” I ask Posy gently.

“Yes.” Her eyes are shining with tears. “We didn’t mean to… I mean, so soon…”

“Oh, Posy.” I give her a hug. I’ve seen her grow up from a fatherless toddler to this young, beautiful woman, about to become a mother and a wife. “It’s not the end of the world. So what if the child comes a bit ‘early’ after the wedding? It certainly won’t be the first ‘premature’ baby in 12.”

She actually laughs at my words, and dries her tears. “I guess you are right.”

I hear the front door opening. Hazelle looks startled for a second when she sees me, but she quickly recovers. “Katniss,” she says. “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too.” I smile, trying to look as if nothing is out of the ordinary. As if I don’t sleep in Peeta’s arms every night.

If Hazelle thinks that I look or behave differently, she doesn’t mention it. She walks over to the toy box and kneels down to pick up Ivy. “There’s my girl.”

"She loves her grandma," I say as Ivy holds tightly onto Hazelle's shoulders.

Hazelle stands, and grimaces slightly. Her back is obviously bothering her, and carrying Ivy can't be helpful. “You’ve invited Katniss already?” She asks. She's obviously addressing Posy, who nods her answer. “And you told her?” Posy nods again.

“Thank you for the invitation,” I say to both of them. “We’d love to come to your toasting. And Posy, it _is_ good news, alright? Don’t let anyone try to convince you that it’s not.” I won’t think about the hunger and the reapings. I won't say any of that aloud.

“Would you like to stay for lunch, Katniss?” Hazelle asks.

I know they can’t possibly have much food in the house, but Seam pride and hospitality run deep. On any other day I would probably have said yes, because not accepting an invitation can easily be taken as an insult, but not today. It’s just too hard to look Hazelle in the eyes. I shake my head. “Thank you, but I need to go to the tailor’s, and I have a mountain of laundry waiting for me at home.”

The last word slipped out, and as soon as I hear it, I know I shouldn’t have said it. I can tell that Hazelle notices and immediately understands what it means. Home is no longer the Seam. Home is where Peeta is, in a house that is ten times bigger than this one, with copious amounts of nutritious food and big windows. My new home is a barrier between us.

I wrap Ivy on my back, and prepare to go back out into the crisp fall air. “Don’t be a stranger, Katniss,” Hazelle says. “It was nice to see you. Come visit us again?”

“We will.” My face burns with shame. I didn't mean to, but I’ve shut the Hawthorne family out of my life the last few months. At first because I needed to mourn, but then for other reasons.

“How are you doing, Katniss?” Hazelle asks. Her voice is hesitant now.

“I - I’m good,” I stammer. “We’re good.” The children and I.

Peeta and I.

She smiles. “That’s good to hear. The last time I saw you, at the reaping, you didn’t look well.”

I look down. “I wasn't. I'm much better now, though.”

She's quiet for a minute while I double check Ivy's wrap. She's getting bigger, and the cloth wrap is starting to wear. “It’s been almost a year.”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“A lot has changed in that year.”

“A lot of things,” I agree. “But not everything.”

Hazelle studies me intently. It’s hard to meet her Seam gray eyes, but I force myself to. She’s only 18 years or so older than me, she had Gale very early. I think she was pregnant during her last reaping. She looks older, though, her skin and body marked by the hard life in the Seam. And right now, I feel almost like a teenager in her presence.

“People talk,” she says. “Both in the Seam and in the Town. Mrs. Mellark is the worst of them.”

“I’m not surprised that she is.”

“I don’t know what’s true or not of what they say, and I would never ask you about it. I’ve known you since you were a starving 12-year-old girl. You were married to my son, and you’re the mother of my grandchildren. That makes you family, no matter what people say, and that’s what’s important to me.”

My eyes are filled with tears now. “Thank you,” I croak. I’m not sure if I deserve this wonderful woman’s generosity, but I’m immensely grateful that I have it.

“The only thing I’m asking is that you don’t talk to me about it. I don't want to know anything about him.”

I nod, unable to speak.

When I get back to the Victors’ Village, I decide to give Peeta the message from his mother. His face doesn’t betray any emotion when I relay it, nor does he give any indication of whether or not he actually intends to visit his family.

“Was she nice to you?” he asks instead.

I shrug, but find it hard to meet his eyes. “As nice as could be expected, I guess.”

“No, Katniss,” he says, tilting my head up with a finger under my chin. “You shouldn’t expect anyone to treat you badly.”

I smile weakly at him. I guess he’s right, but sometimes it’s hard to remember.

 

* * *

 

The contrast between the quiet, isolated life we lead in the Victors’ Village and the hostility I experience in the Town and the Seam is confusing. I feel frustrated just thinking about it.

There are, however, more reasons why I’m frustrated these days.

Sleeping in the same bed every night means that the only place I’m alone now, is in the bathroom. I take a shower every night before I go to bed, and that’s when I allow my hand to travel down between my legs. I lean against the cold tiles of the wall, and I muffle a moan against my free hand as the warm water washes over me. I wonder if Peeta touches himself while thinking about me, too? That thought is enough to push me over the edge.

I get out of the shower. I dry myself, and then I use the towel to wipe the fog off from the mirror, a small circle just big enough to take a look at my face. My pupils are fat and black, and my skin is flushed. I suppose I can blame that on taking a shower. Or did he hear, does he _know_? Peeta said he’d been in love with me since he was five. We sleep in the same bed every night. Surely he must be as affected by my presence as I am by his? I’ve felt him hard against me in the mornings. I've felt him hard a few evenings too.

He touches my face sometimes before we fall asleep. His fingers trace the line of my jaw and my lips, very lightly, and the way he looks at me as he explores my features... I swallow deeply. My body has just come down from my orgasm, but I already want him again.

If he suspects what I just did in the shower, he doesn’t give any indication. Peeta smiles when he sees me, and puts down the book he was reading. I slip into bed with him, and he puts his arms around me. “You smell nice,” he murmurs. We’ll sleep in his bed tonight, and I used his bathroom because it was closer. I used his soap, too.

“I smell like you.”

“No, you smell much nicer.”  I disagree, but I don’t have time to answer because he leans in, and I close my eyes a split second before our lips meet. We don’t kiss very often, at least not on the lips. Peeta kisses my hair before we fall asleep, and sometimes my cheek. But this is different. It starts out slow and soft, but quickly grows deeper and more intense. My body may be sated, but the fire still flares up. His must too, because he pulls me even closer, and when he does, my hands begin to explore.

His body isn't new to me. I have touched him before. But it still feels like it is. When we did this before, we didn’t take our time. That's how it's different now. My heart is pounding as my hand slips underneath his white cotton t-shirt, the one he always sleeps in, and I slowly learn his shape with my fingertips. I can feel how he breathes faster, and hear his gasp, and his reaction to my touch gives me more confidence. I break the kiss. I look down at his face, at his half parted lips, his flushed skin. Then I look lower.

Half of his belly is exposed. There’s a thin trail of blond hairs that travels from his bellybutton and down into his boxer briefs. I don’t follow it yet, even though I want to.  Instead, I slide my hand in the other direction, pushing his t-shirt up to reveal more of his skin. I tug questioningly at the shirt, and he shifts his body, helping me take it off. His chest is completely hairless, which I find a bit odd. There’s not one single blemish on his skin. I know this must be the Capitol’s work somehow, but I force the thought away from my mind. Instead, I circle one of his nipples with my index finger.

His breath catches, and there’s the beginning of a moan in the back of his throat. “The things you do to me, Katniss,” he whispers, his voice husky. “The effect that you have.”

I feel something warm spread through my body, starting from my chest and moving outwards. I don’t know what to answer, I don’t have any words, so instead, I kiss him again. His right hand moves up to the back of my neck. His fingers tangle in my hair as he takes control of the kiss. He seems to really like that. A shudder goes through me, because I really like that, too. His left hand travels slowly down my spine, leaving a trail of fire.

As his fingers reach the small of my back, I moan into his mouth, and he breaks the kiss. He looks at me with something between a smirk and a quizzical smile on his lips. “Well, clearly you have an effect on me, too,” I say, breathlessly.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he admits. His hand moves up along my spine again, and he pushes the neckline of my nightdress down over one of my shoulders, baring it to him. I crane my head back slowly when he kisses my neck. His lips press against skin he once broke with his teeth. But, it’s not like it was before. He kisses me tenderly, and he takes his time.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have touched you either,” I answer. He has located a spot on my neck that seems to be directly linked to my core. It's getting more difficult to speak. “But you liked it?”

His tongue flickers over that spot on my neck. My hips reflexively buck against his knee, and when it brushes against my clit, I can’t contain a moan. He exhales shakily against my neck as I do, and looks up at me with heavy-lidded eyes.

“I liked it,” he confirms.

“And I liked kissing you.” I’m pretty sure my own passion is as visible in my face as the passion I see in his.

It’s going to happen. Right now.

He kisses my forehead gently, and draws me closer, but not for a passionate embrace this time. I hear his heart beating wildly under my ear, and I know my own is beating just as fast.

I suddenly feel ashamed. I’m unable to control myself and my body’s reactions. Isn’t it usually the other way around, that the woman stops the man? Peeta must notice a change in me, because he looks at me with concern etched across his face.

“What’s wrong, Katniss?”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“What for?”

“My behavior. It isn’t… proper.”

He furrows his brow. “Where is this coming from?”

I hesitate. “I… Um…” I’m unable to find the words.

His features soften as he sees my confusion. “Don’t start to believe what they are saying about you,” he says. His thumb traces my lower lip. “I don't trust myself with you. Not yet. It's too soon for me to go further.” He tucks some stray strands of hair behind my ear. "Even though I want to."

I nod wordlessly. I’m close to tears. I shut my eyes and wait for sleep to come.

 

* * *

 

We don’t talk about it the next morning, but there’s a small smile playing on his lips, and his fingers brush the back of my hand briefly as I hand him a cup of tea.

 

* * *

 

Ivy is napping. Peeta’s lying on the bed, reading a book.  I’ve been putting clean clothes into the wardrobe of my room. Peeta offered to help me, but the last time he did, I didn't find anything afterwards, so I politely declined.

“Will you help me bake a wedding cake for Posy?” I ask Peeta. I keep my voice low, so that I don't disturb Ivy in the next room.

He looks up, a look of surprise on his face. “Of course. When is she getting married?”

“The toasting is on Sunday.” I don’t say anything about why the wedding came up so suddenly, and he doesn’t ask.

“You’re going?”

“Yes.” I clear my throat nervously. “The children and I are going." I take a deep breath as I begin to explain. "I don't think-"

He shakes his head and holds a hand up. “I didn't expect to be invited, Katniss. It’s okay. It's Gale’s family. It would be awkward.”

I do wish he could go, but it would be terribly awkward. I think about last night, and that’s enough for blood to rush to my lower body. “Awkward,” I repeat.

“So do you have any ideas for the cake?”

“I don’t know. Aren’t you the baker?”

“Yes, but it helps to know the person who’s getting the cake, and I’ve never even spoken with the bride. What is Posy’s favorite thing in the whole world? Every bride deserves a cake that’s made just for her.”

“The flowers in the Meadow,” I tell him. “When they were younger, Prim and Posy used to take Prim’s goat to the Meadow together. Posy would always come back with flowers in her hair. All summer, Hazelle’s house is full of flowers. Posy picks them all.”

He smiles. “Flowers it is, then.”

I smile, too. “She’ll love that.”

I notice that some of his clothes have somehow found their way into my wardrobe. A few boxer briefs, some t-shirts, a pair of jeans. I sit down on the bed, crossing my legs as I look at him. Perhaps it’s us talking about Posy’s wedding that makes me say it. Weddings are about love, about hope, about the future. I don’t know how our future is going to look like, though. “I’ve been thinking. About you. About us.”

 “Me too.” He rolls over on his side, facing me.

I take a deep breath. “Can we draw a line somehow? What’s in the Capitol is in the Capitol. What’s in 12 is in 12. I know what you have to do in the Capitol, and I know you don’t have any choice. I’ll never be okay with it,” I confess, and he seems to shrink before me. I take his hand. “But I know it’s not your fault, and I don’t hold it against you. But when you’re here, can we try to let it be just us?”

“I’m not sure it’s going to be that easy,” he says slowly. “I’ve always tried to keep my life in 12 separate. I think pretty much all the victors do that. But it doesn’t really work, because the Capitol is always there at the back of my mind. It will always be at the back of your mind too. Won’t it?”

I don’t lie to him. “I guess you’re right.”

“I think we both need to be clear about what it means. I’ll never be able to be faithful to you. As long Snow tells me to do this, I won't be able to give you the life I dreamed of sharing with you when I was young.”

A shiver runs through me at his words. I blink the tears away. “I know,” I whisper.

“I have to entertain clients, but I'll never touch anyone I'm not _assigned_ to."

“I understand. I don't like it, Peeta. Not one bit. But... I'm still here."

There are tears in his eyes now, too. “I’m so grateful that you are.” He clears his throat. “What I _can_ give you, is emotional fidelity. I can promise that no one else will ever own my heart. I can promise that I'll always come home to you."

For the first time, we are dealing with a problem the way a couple should. We discuss our issues together. There are no good solutions, not to this problem, but we have to find one that is acceptable. Together.

“I want that,” I say, my voice isn’t quite clear. “I want you.”

“I want you, too. You’re all I’ve ever wanted.”

He smiles at me and I enjoy the moment that passes between us.

“Do Cashmere and the others do that, too? Have a secret partner in their home district that they have to protect.”

I still haven’t brought up what Cashmere told me – that she was Peeta’s first. I know it’s not really any of my business, but it hurts. Especially when I think about what Haymitch said, that he’d hoped it would be me. I know that I have nothing to fear from Cashmere, but it’s still hard to bring her up.

“All the victors are protecting someone,” he says. “Except the few who don’t have anyone left that they love.”

“Like Haymitch?”

“Yes. And Johanna.” I furrow my brows, and he explains. “Johanna Mason? District 7? The one who pretended to be a weakling so no one bothered to take her out, but when there were only a few tributes left, she killed them all with an axe?” I nod. I remember her now. That was quite a year. If Johanna doesn’t have anyone left that she loves, I suppose that means she did something to Snow, too, like Haymitch. I shiver. “There are quite a few victors who have partners in their home districts, but they are mostly not involved with Snow’s little business. Among the victors that are, I think Finnick is the only one who’s in a long-term relationship, but some of the others could have lovers that I don’t know about. We can be quite protective of our personal lives.”

“I understand. I guess I would be too, if so much of my privacy had already been taken from me.”

“Exactly.” He has a distant look on his face. “Cashmere’s never said anything about having a lover, or a boyfriend, back in 1. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t have one, or maybe several for all I know, but if that’s something she wants to keep in 1, then I understand her reasons and respect them.”

“Of course.”

“Besides, many of us never get married or have children, either. Most of us are traumatized by the Hunger Games, even if their prostitution career was short or non-existent. Dragging a partner or especially children into that, is something many of us choose not to do.”

“Is that what you thought, too?”

“Yes. That’s what I thought for a very long time.”

Ivy wakes up from her nap. I can hear her playing in the next room. "Can we talk more about this later?" I ask.

He smiles softly at me. "Of course."

 

* * *

 

Peeta follows Haymitch to the train station. He’s gotten his mentor into a hospital in the Capitol. Honestly, I think it’s something between a hospital and a rehab facility. Haymitch clearly needs both.

Peeta is gone longer than I thought he would be. When he finally comes back to the Victors’ Village several hours later, he looks tired, and his face is drawn. The children are watching TV, some kids’ show from the Capitol that I’m not entirely sure that I want them to watch. But at least it keeps them both occupied for a little while, which gives me the chance to find out what’s wrong with Peeta, because clearly, something is.

I don’t even have to ask. “I’ll be going to the Capitol in the beginning of November,” he informs me, keeping his voice low so the children can’t hear.

“How long have you known?” I knew it was coming. Still, hearing that it’s actually happening, that the date has already been set, is almost physically painful.

“They gave me a letter in person at the train station. I’m sorry.”

"I’m sorry, too,” I croak, trying to keep myself from crying. I embrace him, hiding my face against his neck. His body is warm and solid against mine. I know that from now on, we’ll be facing this together, although I’m not quite sure how. “Snow’s using us to keep you in line. We’ve made everything worse for you.”

“No,” he whispers in my hair, “you're making it all bearable.”

 

* * *

 

It’s very quiet. I’ve lit some candles, hoping they will somehow chase the darkness outside the kitchen window away, but it doesn’t really work.

“I miss Haymitch already,” I admit. We don’t play poker tonight. It feels wrong, knowing Haymitch is on the train on his way to the Capitol. Even though his reason for going there is a good one for once, it still feels wrong. “Do you think he’ll be alright?”

“No. He won’t be. His body is destroyed by decades of alcoholism. I just hope that he’ll be able to hold on a bit longer.”

“Life is short.”

“Yes, it is.” His eyes are burning.  He surprises me by getting up from his chair. He takes my hand. “It’s late. Let’s go to bed?”

It’s not really that late, it’s only a little after nine. But his fingers touching my skin make it easy to agree. “Yes.”

I blow out the candles, and we go upstairs. I go to the bathroom to change and brush my teeth, and when I come into my bedroom, Peeta is already there. But tonight, he’s not reading a book while waiting for me. Instead, he’s standing beside the bed. As soon as I close the door behind me, he pulls me into his embrace. I don’t know who initiates the kiss, and it doesn’t matter. When our lips separate, we are both panting. I can feel his erection against my belly.

“I want to touch you,” he says. “Will you allow it?”

My body’s instant reaction to his words is a rush of wetness. “Yes. I’ll allow it.”

I walk backwards towards the bed, and he follows me. My heart is pounding in my chest. I sit down on the edge of the bed, and he sits down next to me. He plays with my loose hair with one hand, the thumb of the other traces my lower lip gently. “You have to talk to me,” he says. “Tell me what feels good and what doesn’t.”

“Okay,” I answer, probably too eagerly. I lie down on the bed.

When his large hand travels under my nightdress and touches the bare skin of the outside of my thigh for the first time, I have to stifle my moan. “Don’t hold back, Katniss. I want to hear you,” he breathes in my ear. I turn my head, and he kisses me, a wet, deep, somewhat sloppy kiss. His hand moves further up, over my panties, caressing my hip. My nightdress slides up with his hand, exposing my skin to him. His touch is light, but it doesn’t tickle. Instead, it sets me on fire.

My entire belly is exposed now, my nightdress is bunched up just below my breasts. He looks down between us, and I blush. My belly isn’t quite as flat and toned as it used to be, and there are still faint stretch marks from my two pregnancies. I’m about to open my mouth and, I don’t know, explain, or maybe apologize. But Peeta speaks first. “You’re so beautiful." His voice is sincere, full of awe, and the apology dies in my throat. “You have no idea how many times I’ve fantasized about this.”

“I’ve fantasized about you too,” I blurt out.

He instantly looks up at me, his hand stills. Our eyes meet, and he holds my gaze. “Really?” I nod, blushing deeply. I didn't intend to let that slip. “What did you fantasize about?”

Telling him feels too personal, too embarrassing. I’m not used to talking about these things. I duck my head against his chest as his fingers continue their slow exploration of my belly. “I used to lie in bed at night and think about you. I knew that you were so close. Just a few rooms away. I would think about the things you would do to me. What you would feel like when I touched you. And…” My voice trails off.

“Did you touch yourself while thinking about me?” His voice is husky now. His index finger is grazing the underside of one of my breasts.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Katniss, that’s the hottest thing I’ve heard in my life.” He lifts my chin up with two fingers, and makes me meet his eyes. My face is flushed and warm, but the passion I see in his eyes makes me forget all about being embarrassed. “Thank you for telling me.”

And then, without any further hesitation, he slips my nightdress off. I help him, with trembling hands. He throws it onto the floor, and as soon as I’m free of it, he sucks and nibbles on my collarbone. It’s a the spot he discovered a few nights ago, one that makes me arch under him. He touches my now naked breast. He traces underneath it, very lightly, and then his fingers find my nipple.

“Peeta,” I whimper. He shifts his weight slightly, and I feel against my thigh how hard he is for me. I roll around quickly and straddle him, and my core– which is now most definitely soaking my panties – comes into contact with his cock. He seems surprised by my sudden movement at first. But his eyes darken as a smile spreads across his lips, and his eyes focus on my breasts. He reaches out with both hands, and I have to bite my lip to keep myself from crying out as he lightly pinches my nipples. My breasts fill his hands, and I adjust my angle slightly. When I do, my clit finds stimulation against his erection.

We're breathing heavily. His fingers tug gently on the elastic band of my panties. “This is going to be easier if you’re not on top,” he says. I nod nervously. I roll off him to lie next to him.

I’m nervous. My hands are shaking as I help him remove the last item of clothing. I’m used to doing this in the dark, and I wish that the light was off. I’ve never had much confidence in my body. But when I see the look on his face as Peeta stares wide-eyed at me, I’m glad the light is on, because I wouldn’t want to miss it. He gently guides me onto my back, and I part my legs, too desperate for his touch to wait patiently. He makes a strangled sound as he sees me parting my thighs for him.

When he touches me, I have to stifle the moan with the back of my hand. I can’t wake the children. I laugh quietly at myself, at how strongly I react to just one touch.

“You’re so wet,” he says. His voice dark and deep. I don’t know what to say. Does he expect me to talk dirty? Maybe I shouldn’t say anything at all? Or should I just acknowledge that yes, I know? Before my brain can process an answer, be continues. “Show me what you like?”

Showing him seems intimate. It's a level of intimacy that I didn't think I was ready for. I surprise myself as I take his hand and guide it lower. I’ve never done this before. Gale never asked me to show him. I knew he had been with a few girls at the slag heap before we were together, and he didn’t think he needed me to guide him. Peeta definitely doesn’t need guidance. But I’m still glad he’s asking. 

Our fingers are intertwined as our hands move lower over my belly. My fingers find my clit, and Peeta’s fingers are seemingly everywhere around mine. I’m dripping wet already. We look down between us. I swallow deeply as I start to draw lazy circles around my most sensitive flesh. “Like this,” I say in a strangled voice, and his fingers replace mine. His eyes are burning when he looks at me. It’s hard to keep my eyes open, but I try to. At first he replicates my movements, but he soon experiments with speed and pressure while watching my reactions intently. He slips one finger inside me, pumping slowly, and nearly finishes me as he adds another.

“Peeta…” I whimper.

He curls his fingers inside of me, and suddenly, unexpectedly, my body has an almost violent reaction to his touch, in a way that I never knew existed. I’m in shock as I arch under him, the back of my head digging into the pillow. What is this? Peeta doesn’t seem surprised, though. It must be the reaction he wanted, because he smiles brilliantly at me as he repeats _that_ thing. He does it again and again, coaxing the same reaction from my body every time.

He keeps experimenting, and I’m shocked at my body’s reactions. I feel as if my body is completely out of control. What is this? What is he doing to me?

He doesn’t let me come. He keeps me right on the edge. I bite into his shoulder as he fucks me with three fingers, excruciatingly slowly, while his thumb works on my clit, using just the right pressure. I’m not really sure what he’s doing, but it feels like he’s everywhere, all at once. I’m beyond any rational thought now, I’m reduced to trying desperately to stay quiet. He draws me to the brink, again and again. But every time I’m about to come, he stops, or slows down, just long enough to make sure I don’t. It’s torture. He keeps me in a state of desperation, seemingly forever, until I’m able to find enough air in my lungs to whimper, “Please, make me come, Peeta!”

Was he waiting for me to ask, to beg? Or was he simply waiting for me to say his name? It doesn’t matter, nothing matters. He doesn't slow down this time. He keeps it up, and within seconds, I shatter around his fingers. He swallows my scream with his mouth, kissing me through the intense orgasm he gives me.

When I come down, everything is a blur. I blink my eyes, trying to focus. All I can see are his blue eyes. “That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispers, peppering my face with light kisses. “Again.” I have no idea what he’s talking about. I can’t think, my brain can just barely process his words. 

Then he touches my clit with two fingers again, and I begin to understand what he wants. My body jerks at his touch, I’m too sensitive. I want to tell him not to, push his hand away, say that it’s too soon. I can’t possibly come again already. But strangely, Peeta seems to know my body better than I do myself, and I’m shocked to find out that I am actually coming. Again, already, on the heels of the first orgasm, which hasn’t even quite subsided yet. “Peeta, I’m… I’m going to… What are you…” I’m unable to form a full sentence.

“Let go, Katniss,” he says, his breath hot against my skin. I’m lost again. It’s not quite the same this time – the orgasm is less intense, but more prolonged. It's certainly no less pleasurable. My knees are shaking as his fingers move again, coaxing another wave of pleasure.

In the end, I’m just a shivering mess. I hardly remember my own name. Peeta is in complete control of my body.

When at last he stops, I’m covered in sweat and gasping for breath. His hands fall away from between my legs, and he pulls me into his embrace. “Thank you,” he murmurs into my hair.” I can feel him hard against my belly through his boxer briefs, but I’m simply unable to move, to even _try_ to return the favor. My body won’t cooperate. “Thank you for trusting me with this. For showing me.”

He’s thanking _me_?  I somehow find the strength to laugh. “I think I’m the one who should be thanking you,” I say, my voice hoarse.

“That’s where you are wrong,” he whispers as he kisses my lips lightly, lovingly. “What you just let me see... The look on your face…”

“I can’t move,” I say with a chuckle. “I mean I physically can’t move.” I’m still not in control of my body. One of my hands is partially clutched, I think I was holding on desperately to the sheet at one point, and I’m unable to extend my fingers fully. “What have you done to me?” I ask him, half joking, but even as I ask the question, I feel myself drifting away.

 

* * *

 

I wake to the sight of Peeta’s blue eyes in the morning light. He’s lying next to me, wide awake, one hand under his head. How long has he been awake? I blink against the sunlight.

“Hi,” he says. His dark voice makes my stomach tingle.

“Hi,” I answer. Every single muscle in my body seems to ache, reminding me of what happened last night. I can feel myself blushing just thinking about it. “I’m sorry for passing out on you last night.” My voice isn’t quite clear.

His smile widens. “I enjoyed watching you pass out.” I bite my lip, unable to hide my own smile. He leans closer, kissing me softly on my lips. “I enjoyed it very much.”

“I meant to return the favor,” I say, my blush deepening. “But you kind of caught me by surprise.”

He’s playing with a strand of my hair, tucking it behind my ear. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. He hugs me tighter. “I want to see you fall apart, again and again and again. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” There’s that deep, dark voice again. I feel him against me, rock hard through his thin layer of clothing.

I want to touch him, I want it so much, but I can’t. I hear Ivy in the next room, and I know she’s awake. I hear from the increasing volume of Ivy’s babbling that I have to go pick her up, very soon. She’s at the end of her patience. “I have to go,” I whisper, kissing his lips lightly. I locate my nightdress and my panties on the floor. I don’t blush as he looks at my uncovered body in the morning light.

 


	22. Star-crossed lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Lbug84 for betaing (have you checked out her new Katnick fic 'The Generosity of the Capitol' yet? If you haven’t, you should) and to Chelzie for prereading! You guys are the best!

Prim visits unexpectedly. Arrow is already at school. Peeta is out feeding Haymitch’s geese. I’m relieved that he’s not here. I’m not sure if I’m ready for the two of them to meet quite yet.

“Where are the twins?” I ask her.

“Mother’s taking them for a couple of hours.” Prim sits down by the kitchen table with a sigh. Ivy runs over to her and wants to sit on her lap, and Prim lifts her up and tickles her. “I really need some time to myself,” she admits. “My husband works 12-hour shifts in the mines. I know you’ve been there too, but you only had to deal with one toddler at a time. I have two. And they are _crazy_.”

I laugh. “So I guess you’re not considering having another then?” I expect her to laugh too, but instead she looks sort of sheepish. “Prim?”

“We’ve been thinking about it,” she confesses. “Thom really wants another one.” She strokes Ivy’s hair.

“And what about you?”

“I want another one, too. _One_ , not two.” Even though she rolls her eyes when she says it, I know what she’s saying is true. She nearly died giving birth to Thomas and Ridge; it took her months to recover. And the first few years were rough, with little sleep – and little food, too.

“If you both want another baby…” My voice trails off. I know what the problem is. I’ve been there, too.

“It’s another mouth to feed,” she admits reluctantly. “And with everything else…” Prim knows she has to be careful when she speaks in this house, but she doesn’t have to specify what she means. I understand.

I take her hand from across the table. “You know I’ll do everything I can to help you.” I won’t let them starve. But I can’t do anything to save their children from the reapings.

“I know.” She shrugs. “Anyway, we’re just thinking about it. We’ll see. Well, enough about me. I came here to check on you.” She studies my face closely. I squirm in my chair. She’s making me feel like I’m one of her patients right now. “You look well. In fact, you are all rosy-cheeked,” she says, raising an eyebrow. I blush furiously. There’s no wondering why I’m rosy-cheeked. I don’t know how to answer her, so I don’t say anything. My fingers play nervously with the end of my braid.

She exhales slowly. “He’s treating you well?”

My blush deepens even further, and I can’t help but smile.

“ _That_ well, huh?” Prim lifts an eyebrow. “It’s good to see you smile again, but I’m still not sure if this is a good idea. What if he hurts you again?” She looks worried now.

“He won’t.”

“And how exactly can you know that?” Prim sits back in the chair, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“We’ve finally been able to talk about… well, a lot of things,” I say. I hear myself and know how unconvincing that sounds, but I can’t tell Prim about what Peeta does in the Capitol. I would be betraying Peeta’s trust, and it could possibly put Prim in danger.

“What happens when something the Capitol does sets him off again, and he uses alcohol or drugs as a means to escape?”

“He doesn’t drink or do drugs anymore.” I shift uncomfortably in my chair. This is dangerous territory.

“Look, Katniss,” she says, giving me a pointed look. “It’s obvious that being a victor isn’t as glamorous as they want us to think. Everyone in 12 should know that, just from seeing Haymitch and Peeta deteriorate, year by year.” I stare down into my cup of tea. Even though she’s right, she has no idea of the full extent of what Snow puts his victors through. “I’m not saying it’s Peeta’s fault that he was damaged by the Capitol, but that doesn’t mean it’s a good idea for _you_ to be with him. How can you trust him?”

As far as Prim knows, Peeta’s and my history began the day I started working for him. If I told her about the bread, would she understand the significance of it? And although I didn’t know it myself until recently, Peeta and I go even further back than that.

“Peeta has been in love with me since we were five.” My voice is just a whisper.

Prim looks at me with wide eyes. “Are you serious?” I nod. “And you _believe_ him?”

I’m confused. “Why wouldn’t I believe him?”

Prim rolls her eyes. “You’re probably the most naïve person I’ve ever met, Katniss. What if he’s just saying it to manipulate you?”

I shake my head in frustration. There’s so much I can’t tell her, and I don’t know how to make her understand. If only there were so way to make her _see_...

Maybe there is. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

I go upstairs, leaving Ivy with her aunt. I hope it’s okay with Peeta that I do this. I’m not sure if he’ll like it. In fact, the more I think about it, the more certain I feel that he won’t.

I find the key to the room at the end of the corridor in his sock drawer, and unlock the door. I try not to look at the wall to the left, the one with all the paintings of his nightmares, but I still see them out of the corner of my eye. I can’t show those paintings to Prim, but there’s one that I can. I walk over to the wall to the right and carefully take down the painting of myself, at age five, in the red plaid dress.

I go downstairs. Prim looks up from the book she was showing to Ivy. She furrows her brow. “What’s that?”

I turn the painting around, allowing her to see. Her eyes widen in surprise, and she gets up from her chair, putting Ivy down on the floor. “Is that…” She can barely speak.

“It’s me,” I confirm.

She traces the features of five-year-old Katniss very lightly with her fingertips. “ _Peeta_ made that?”

“Yes.”

“But how could he...”

“It was our first day at school. He heard me sing, and that’s when he fell in love with me.” I look down at the painting. “How could he remember everything about me, down to my braids and the color of my dress, if he wasn’t telling the truth?”

"I don't know..."

“We were in the same class, but we never talked. He never gave me any indication of his feelings.”

I carefully lay the painting on the kitchen table, and she studies it closely. “So, the girl he spoke about in the interview before his Hunger Games… That was _you_?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn't he tell you when he came back?”

“I was already with Gale.”

Prim is still trying to make sense of it all. “All these years?” I nod. “I don’t know if that’s really romantic or just really creepy.” For the first time, Prim looks up from the painting and looks directly at me. Her face is pale as she reaches for my hand. “Katniss, you don’t owe Peeta anything. You don’t have to be with him just because he has feelings for you.”

“That’s not why I’m with him.”

“So you and Peeta are… real?”

I’m not quite sure what to tell her. What does ‘real’ actually mean? What Peeta does to me in bed every night definitely feels very real, but he doesn't let me reciprocate. We communicate now, in a way that we never did before, but we still haven’t discussed why he doesn’t let me touch him. I want to, I want it so badly. But every time I try to take his underwear off, or even just sneak my hand under the elastic, he stops me - gently, but firmly. How real is it if it’s just about me?

And if Prim is talking about formal commitment, there is none. I’ve been reluctant to bring it up. It might be too soon. But I can't get what Peeta told me about Annie, who Finnick can never marry, out of my head. Would it be the same for Peeta and me? I’m not sure. I don’t understand the inner workings of the Capitol, but I think there’s a good chance it would. If Peeta and I never marry, then we can never be real in the eyes of the people in 12. We’ll always be the victor and the whore.

But what I feel for him…

 “Yes, we are real,” I say, my voice clear.

Prim takes a deep breath, a determined look on her face now. “Well, never ending love is good and all, but we both know what it can lead to.”

She takes out a small sachet from her pocket, putting it on the table next to the painting. Damn. So this is why she's really here. She suspected that Peeta and I were sleeping together. Prim supplied me with her special herbal concoction throughout my marriage with Gale. She is the first to admit that it’s far from being 100% effective, and I’ve got a seven-year-old to prove it. But at least it’s better than counting days and hoping for the best. Maybe. 

“Um… Thanks.” I take the sachet and put it in my own pocket. I don’t want to tell Prim that aside from the night before Peeta went to the Capitol, we haven’t done anything that could result in pregnancy yet. That’s between Peeta and me only. And I certainly don’t want to tell Prim about the injections Peeta gets in the Capitol. We will never need Prim’s herbs, but she already knows that our relationship is sexual, so there’s no way I can say no to her concoction without making her suspicious.

“You have to be careful, Katniss.”

“Prim….”

“I mean it. If you think people are gossiping now, just wait and see what happens the day you show up in Town with a rounded belly.”

“I know. You don’t have to worry, we’re being careful.”

My words are actually true, at least when it comes to birth control, but I say them to cover the lie. I find it ironic now that Peeta and I are finally being honest with each other, I have to lie to my sister instead. Hearing Prim tell me that she and her husband are considering having another baby is also a stark reminder of all the things that other people take for granted, things that Peeta and I might never have.

I go upstairs to return the painting so that Prim doesn’t see the tears in my eyes. 

 

* * *

 

“What are you drawing?” Arrow looks at Peeta, who’s sitting by the kitchen table and sketching.

Peeta looks up and smiles at Arrow. “I’m drawing your Aunt Posy’s wedding cake. Do you want to see?” Arrow nods seriously, and he lights up when he sees the sketch. “Your Mama told me that Posy likes flowers.”

“She does,” Arrow confirms. “Last summer, she used to take me to the Meadow a lot to play so that Mama could sleep.”

“Oh, was your Mama very tired?” Peeta sounds amused.

“Yes. Ivy was a baby, and she was crying a _lot_.” He sends his little sister a pointed look.

“You cried when you were a baby too, Arrow,” I remind him.

Peeta chuckles. “Do you think Aunt Posy is going to like the cake?”

Arrow studies it closely and smiles. “Yes. Aunt Posy likes purple. You should have some purple flowers.”

“That’s great advice, Arrow. Thank you. Maybe I can add some wild violets. Do you want to help me make the cake?”

Arrow beams up at him. “Yes! I can help! But I think Ivy is too small.” He sends his little sister another look.

I have to hide my smile. It’s not always easy to be the oldest. “I think you’re right, Arrow, baking is a job for big boys. Why don’t I take Ivy upstairs so she can take her nap, and you two can get started on the cake?”

It takes Peeta and Arrow most of the day to finish the cake. I’ve seen Peeta cook and bake before, of course, but I’ve never seen him decorate anything. I realize now that he must’ve decorated the cakes and cookies I saw in the window in the bakery when I was younger. I recognize the distinctive style of his flowers and the way he uses colors, making the flowers look almost real. It’s not just cake decorating, it’s _art_. Peeta involves Arrow every step of the way, and Arrow is ecstatic. Peeta looks happy, too. He’s carefree, relaxed.

“Do you miss the bakery?” It just slips out as I watch the two of them add the finishing touches on a primrose.

Peeta looks up at me and shrugs. “Sometimes.”

“Do you think Aunt Posy will like the cake we’ve made, Mama?” Arrow asks. He has flour in his hair, and he’s eaten far too much whipped cream.

“I think she’ll love it.”

 

* * *

 

Posy’s toasting is lovely.  She glows as she accepts the toast from Slate. It’s impossible not to cry when I look at them. The toasting marks the beginning of their life together, but in a way, it also marks an end, because Posy’s father is not here to give her away. She wasn’t even born when our fathers were killed in the mines. With every year, it’s as if they have slipped further away, and today we truly see how long it has been since they passed.

Ivy is on my arm as we all watch the bride and groom share the toast. She is wearing her prettiest light pink dress. I smile, but the sad thought of my own daughter as a blushing, fatherless bride, 17 or 18 years from now, makes it falter.

I don’t miss the looks I’m getting from several of the guests, and fewer people speak to me than usual. Not that I’ve ever been the life of the party, but Prim is here, which helps.  Everyone likes Prim, and she doesn’t leave my side for a second. The children help, too. Children are always an ice breaker. To my relief, Arrow plays with the other children, and Ivy is so naturally charming and completely unaware of the tension surrounding her mother’s personal life that she can melt anyone’s heart. But no one helps more than Hazelle who, despite her duties as hostess, really makes an effort to talk to me more than to any of the other guests. I know that the others notice, and I also know that Hazelle is doing it on purpose.

The cake is incredible. Not only does it taste amazing, but it's gorgeous. Peeta really outdid himself with the flowers. I know they’re made of sugar, but they look real.

“I helped Peeta make the cake, Grandma!” Arrow tells Hazelle, and I freeze. Even though it’s blatantly obvious that the cake was made by my lover and not by me, having Arrow say it out loud is different. But Hazelle just hugs her grandson, says the cake is very pretty, and eats a slice of it. Everyone else does too, and there are only a few crumbs left when it’s time to leave.

When we arrive home, the first thing Arrow does when he runs through the door is to shout excitedly, “Aunt Posy loved the cake, Peeta!”

“I’m glad to hear it, Arrow. Was it a nice party?”

Arrow enthusiastically tells Peeta about the cakes and the other children, and Peeta looks at me with an eyebrow raised questioningly. I mouth “good” to him, and he smiles, relieved. Peeta sneaks in a kiss on my cheek when Arrow looks the other way.

Even though the toasting went better than I expected, and Peeta has made us a delicious dinner, I'm still restless and distracted. I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve spent most of the day celebrating a couple’s union, when society’s approval is something that will very likely be denied to Peeta and me, or whether I’m just frustrated by the one-sidedness of the physical side of our relationship. Probably both. I think about all the things I want to do to him, all the things I want us to do _together_ , and I grit my teeth as I discreetly rub my thighs together to try and relieve the tension. It only makes things worse, though, and I realize how ready I am for him already.

If only he’d want that.

I don’t think I hide my frustration very well from Peeta, because he chuckles and kisses my cheek when we pass in the hallway. “What’s on your mind, Katniss?” he whispers in my ear.

"Nothing,” I whisper back, and he chuckles quietly. We both know that _something_ is on my mind.

I try not to curse under my breath as I go downstairs to get Arrow’s teddy bear. Thank goodness it's bedtime.

We go to bed as soon as we’re certain the children have fallen asleep. I barely have time to shut the door behind us before he’s on me, removing my nightdress. He lifts me up, and I wrap my legs around his waist as his mouth finds my breast. He walks slowly towards the bed while he sucks and licks my nipple gently. His hands are seemingly everywhere.

I try to focus through the haze of hormones. I know what’s going to happen. He’s going to make me scream his name into the pillow. He’s going to make me come hard. But when I try to touch him, he’s going to stop me.  My body is already aching for him, but I don’t want this to be only about him pleasuring me.

Otherwise that makes me no different than his clients in the Capitol.

I reach down and try to rub him over his pajama pants. As expected, his fingers curl around my wrist and he moves my hand to rest on his chest between us. He won't even let me touch him over his clothes. I can't help but think that he’s still feeling guilty about that night before he left for the Capitol, and this is his way of making it up to me. It can’t go on any longer.

“Can I touch you, too?” I can barely get the words out, it’s so hard to concentrate when he’s kissing my throat the way he is. One of his hands is trailing down over my belly. I’m not quite sure how it happened, but he’s got me on my back on the bed, and my body betrays me by spreading my legs to welcome his touch. We desperately need to talk about this. We can’t have any more secrets. He looks down at me, breathing heavily, but he doesn’t answer. “I _love_ what you’re doing to me,” I continue, and I can see a smile slowly spreading across his face, “but I want to make you feel good, too.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“Okay.” He seems tense, and he looks away for just a split second.

I furrow my brow. It’s clearly not okay. “Why don’t you want me to touch you?”

“I do,” he says. He licks his lips nervously, but doesn’t continue.

It’s clearly very difficult for him to talk about this. I’m not sure how hard I should push him. “Is it because of what happened last time? Or is it the Capitol?”

“Both,” he confesses.

“I thought we’d moved past what happened before. And we said that we’d try to keep the Capitol out of what’s between us, didn’t we?”

“We did. And I’m really trying to, but I guess that sometimes I _can’t_.”

I suppose I shouldn’t expect him to. More than a decade of abuse won’t go away just because of something we agreed on. “This is about the two of us, doing something _together_. It can’t just be you touching me.” I intertwine my fingers with his. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” His answer is immediate, his voice steady and clear.

“Will you let me touch you?”

He takes a deep breath before answering. “Yes.”

I kiss him; it’s a soft, long, yet undemanding kiss, making me feel relief as we move together. When our lips part, I whisper in his ear, “Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?”

“Okay,” he whispers back. This time, I think it really is okay. His body relaxes against me, and his eyes stay focused on mine.

I lean in and trail kisses down his neck while my hand travels a bit further down, under the white t-shirt he’s wearing. He lifts his arms over his head, and I slip the t-shirt over his head and throw it on the floor. I run my hands over the warm skin of his upper body. He is fit, bordering on stocky, but he’s all muscle. He was when he was younger too, probably from lifting all those flour sacks, and the wrestling. I swirl my tongue around a nipple, and revel at the gasp that escapes from his throat as I do. I look up to make sure he’s okay, that it was a good gasp. His burning blue eyes assure me that it was.

He’s taken his time with me before, so I do the same for him. I’m so wet already, just from touching him. But I want to do this for _him_ , so I try to ignore the insistent throbbing in my core. I explore his body, inch by inch, and when I finally get down to his boxer briefs, he’s rock hard under the thin cotton fabric. It’s both a relief and incredibly arousing. I slowly push his underwear down over his hips, giving him the chance to stop me. But he doesn’t, and groans as his erection springs free. I didn’t get the chance to really look at him the first two times we were together. Since then, I’ve felt him against me through his clothes many times, but actually seeing him like this is different. He’s beautiful, long and thick around.

I lick my lips, but for the first time, I feel a bit hesitant. Not because of his size, although it’s certainly not lacking.  Even though I don’t want to think about it, looking at his body while I contemplate my next move makes it impossible to forget everyone he’s been with before. I don’t count the Capitolites who’ve paid money for his company, because I consider them to be abusive and nothing more, but they weren’t _all_ clients. There have been others, too, like Cashmere and other victors. Partners who definitely have more experience than I do. The last few nights have showed me just how experienced he is compared to me. How can I possibly measure up?

“Katniss?” I look up at him. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

He must have misinterpreted my hesitation. I trace a finger along his length, reveling in the combination of hardness and silky, soft skin. He tries to stifle a moan as I do. I shake my head and smile at him. “No, Peeta,” I say. “I want to. I _really_ want to.” I close my fingers around him. He responds eagerly to my touch, but he doesn’t once close his eyes. He stares at me, his eyes wide, as I run my hands along his length, up and down. First I explore the head with its weeping slit, then I trace every vein and ridge. I weigh his balls in my hands, and his moan when I touch them makes my core throb even harder.

My lips close around him somewhat tentatively at first, but I take his muffled “oh _fuck_ ” as encouragement and quickly gain more confidence. He lifts up on his elbows to look at me and our eyes meet, his cock still in my mouth. “Katniss...” he says, his voice unclear.

I take my mouth off him just long enough to answer. “Yes?”

“Please don’t stop.”

I don’t. I take as much of him as I can in my mouth and use my hands to cover the rest. He bucks under me, thrusting gently into my mouth, but he doesn’t once try to go too deep. I use his sounds to guide me, to find out what he prefers. Every move and sound he makes builds my confidence. I look up at him from time to time, and I’m met with nearly black eyes that are fixed on me, on my face, my lips.

He wants to see that this is _me_.

“I’m gonna…” he groans desperately as he tugs at my hair, and I know what he means.  I squeeze his thigh reassuringly, but don’t stop. I feel him hardening even more, and then strangled moans are torn from his throat as his cum hits the back of my tongue and throat in spurts.

His body slumps down on the bed, panting heavily, and I sit back between his thighs and discreetly wipe away the few drops that slipped out of my mouth with the back of my hand.

I smile, a bit unsure about what comes next. He sits up, his face flushed, and his lips find mine in a sloppy, almost desperate kiss. He groans, as he must taste himself on my lips and tongue.

“Katniss, that was… wow,” he says into my hair after our lips part, holding me tight. His voice is breathless, his heart racing against my chest.

“Thank you for letting me do that for you.”

His hand travels over my belly, down between my legs. He finds me swollen and dripping wet. “You really liked doing it.”

I’m only able to answer with a whimper, because he circles my clit with his index finger in the most delicious way. I’m about to lose all coherent thought. Again. “Did you like it, Katniss?” His voice is so deep it makes me shudder in anticipation.

“Yes, I did. You can feel how much I did.” He swirls his finger around my clit again, and I moan louder than I intend to. “I’m so close… so close already.” I rest my forehead against his neck, trying desperately to hold on.

He grins and drags me over to the edge of the bed, where he spreads my thighs so that I open for him.

Once again, I drown my screams in the pillow.

 

* * *

 

We grow together.

Peeta starts to play a bigger role in the children’s lives. There are still boundaries, of course. I’m the only one who bathes them or puts them to bed. But he reads to them, plays with them, and even helps Arrow with his homework sometimes. One day, Peeta takes Arrow and Ivy to feed Haymitch’s geese. When they come home, Ivy is on his shoulders, and Peeta proudly says that Ivy has learned a new word – “goooo”. After that, Ivy insists on feeding the geese every day.

We probably stay in the Victors’ Village too much. It’s partly because it’s simply easier, not having to be subjected to the stares and the whispers. But it’s also because aside from the children, Peeta is all I can think about. All I want is to be with him, all the time, and meeting other people is almost a distraction.

It’s never been like this before.

“I feel like a teenager when we make out on the couch,” I giggle one night. We are in the living room. I’m sitting on his lap, straddling him. He is shirtless, and his hand is under my top, on its way up to my chest.

“Really?” he murmurs against my neck. He pinches my nipple, and a shudder goes through my body. “I guess.” His voice is a bit detached.

I furrow my brow. “What do you mean?”

His hand stills. “I just never had the whole… teenage experience.”

I inwardly curse myself. I just killed the mood. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay,” he cuts me off. “Don’t worry about it.” Still, he retracts his hand, and my top falls down to cover my belly again.

“Do you ever wonder what would have happened if we had met earlier?” I ask him. “When we were teenagers?”

“Katniss, we met earlier than that. You just never noticed me.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do, and it’s not really something I want to think about, because nothing good can come of it.”  His hands rest on the sides of my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. “I _was_ reaped. Nothing can change that, and if I think about what my life could’ve been if I wasn’t, it will rip me apart. I’ve gone down that road before, Katniss, and it leads to a lot of white liquor and drugs.” He tilts his head. “Besides, you were with Gale. If you hadn’t been, you wouldn’t have Ivy and Arrow. Would you ever change that?” I shake my head. “I thought not.”

16-year-old Katniss made out with Gale on her mother's couch, while 16-year-old Peeta was sold to the highest paying customer in the Capitol. The contrast between us is staggering. “Cashmere told me that she was your first.” My voice isn’t quite clear. I can’t pretend as if I don’t know this any longer.

“What?” His hands fall to his side, and he sits up straighter. “She _told_ you that?”

“I guess I already knew, or at least I should have known. I just didn’t understand what Haymitch meant at first.”

Peeta swears under his breath. “What exactly have those two said to you about me?”

“Not much,” I assure him hurriedly. “I mean, not about _personal_ things. Just that you were sent to the Capitol for your first season. And that Haymitch called Cashmere, who agreed to support you, and that she was your… first.”

He studies my face closely. I can’t read his emotions. Should I not be sitting on his lap right now? We’ve gone from making out to having this very painful discussion within the span of a few minutes, and I’m not sure if he wants me this close, not now. He is no longer hard against my inner thigh. Not that I can blame him.

“Does it bother you that she was?”

“Yes,” I confess.   

“It shouldn’t,” he says slowly. “Not really. If you think about it.”

“Better her than a client, right?” Just saying the words out loud hurts. But I’m starting to understand how things work in the Capitol now, and those were the two only alternatives for 16-year-old Peeta Mellark.

“Right. Older victors often offer to _help a_ new victor before their first season. Even if the victor isn’t a virgin.”

“Have you _helped_ new victors, too?”

“Yes.” It’s as if there’s an unspoken ‘of course’ there, too. “The clients generally don’t want someone who clearly has no idea what they’re doing in bed. There are, of course, a few who might actually prefer an inexperienced victor, especially if she’s female – but we don’t allow that to happen. No one should have to have a client as their first.”

His voice is hard as he stresses the words ‘no one’. But after a brief pause, his features soften. “Cashmere was patient and supportive, and did her best to make it as good of an experience for me as possible, the situation being what it was.”

“I noticed that you were popular with the girls in school,” I say. “But you never…?”

“…Took anyone to the slag heap?” He finishes my sentence for me. I nod. “Oh, Katniss, how could I do that? I was waiting for you.”

My eyes fill with tears. He gently dries one that rolls down my cheek. “Don’t cry, Katniss. Some things can’t be changed. This is one of them.”

That’s not really a comfort. I take his hand, wet with my tears, and kiss it.

 

* * *

 

Haymitch returns. He looks better now than he did before he left for the Capitol. Still, all the Capitol doctors can do for him is buy him time. On the second night after he returns, he knocks on the door. He has a deck of cards in one hand and a half empty bottle of white liquor in the other.

“What did they tell you in the hospital, Haymitch?” Peeta sighs when he sees the bottle.

“That I’m a lost cause. But I promised I’d at least try to cut down, and that’s what I’m doing. See how little is left in this bottle? It’s going to have to last me all night as I beat the crap out of you two in poker.”

“And what did you do with the rest of what was in that bottle?” Peeta asks, although surely he must know the answer.

“I drank it, of course.” Peeta shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything.

We haven’t played poker since early June, before the Hunger Games, and it’s not until now that I realize how much I’ve missed it.

“I talked to Finnick on the phone while I was in the Capitol,” Haymitch says as he pretends to study his cards very closely. I’m pretty sure he’s bluffing. “He says you’re not going back there until November 6th? That’s unusually late for the fall season, isn’t it?”

I swallow. I really don’t want to think about November. This is going to be the first big test of whether I can actually handle that Peeta goes to the Capitol. Why does Haymitch bring it up now that we’re having fun? But there’s something about his voice, it’s too casual. And there’s something about the way Peeta looks at his mentor, too. He stares at Haymitch’s face for just a second too long before he looks down at his cards again. Peeta’s already running dangerously low on chips. 

“Yes, it is.”

“Do you know why it’s later than usual?” I finally manage to find my voice.

Haymitch shrugs. “I don’t know. Finnick didn’t say.” I feel sick. I thought I was ready for this, but apparently I’m not. “Finnick says hi, by the way.”

I’m distracted and lose the hand. Haymitch smirks.

“Speaking of 4, did you watch the news yesterday? About the stormy weather they're having?” Peeta has been watching the news rather carefully the last few weeks, ever since he came back from following Haymitch to the train station. As a result, I have too, because we usually sit together on the couch at night. Is there anything out of the ordinary going in the Capitol? Is that what has suddenly sparked his interest in the news?  Is that why the season is postponed? But all I’ve seen on TV has been the usual propaganda. Maybe Peeta knows what to look for better than I do?

“Yes. There was no fish for dinner at the hospital because of it. Hadn’t been any for five weeks, one of the nurses told me.” Five weeks? That’s much longer than they said on the news. I’ve never been to 4, of course. But storms for weeks on end? Something doesn’t seem right about that. 

Peeta grins. “You didn’t mind that, did you? You’ve never really liked fish.”

Haymitch guffaws. “No, keep the stormy weather coming!”

Haymitch finishes his liquor and Peeta pours him a glass of water. Haymitch grimaces, but doesn’t object. I try to focus on the game, but it’s hard, because I can’t shake the feeling that Haymitch and Peeta just discussed something important, but I don’t know what it was.

Besides, Peeta keeps trying to distract me by touching my knee and thigh “accidentally” under the table. Combined with the talk about 4 and the upcoming season, it’s enough to distract me into making stupid mistakes. As a result, I lose hand after hand. Peeta has discreetly pushed up the skirt of my dress a bit, and he gently strokes the inside of my bare thigh with his thumb. I feel myself growing wet. Damn him. He’s doing this on purpose. He’s already lost all his chips, so all he can do now is watch me bleed my last chips to Haymitch – and touch me.

And he does. I sulk as Haymitch wins my last remaining chips. I hate losing. When Haymitch goes to the bathroom, Peeta doesn’t waste any time – he swiftly grabs my shoulders and pulls me to him, his lips crashing against mine.

“You drive me insane, Katniss,” he whispers. “Just sitting here all night, looking at you? All I’ve been thinking about is what I’m going to do to you. No wonder I lost.”

“You always lose,” I point out. I’m angry, but I’m also really turned on. “Damn you for making me lose to Haymitch. Are you conspiring with him?”

For a split second, there’s something in his eyes. Is it surprise? Then it’s gone, whatever it was, and he smirks. “Am I having an effect on you?”

“You know damn well that you are.”  I hear Haymitch’s footsteps in the hallway, and quickly sit down on the chair, hoping my face isn’t too flushed. I barely have time to smooth down my hair before he’s back. Haymitch guffaws when he sees us, and I blush deeply. I know my braid is a lot messier than it was just a few minutes ago.

“Time to break up this party,” Haymitch says. “I would actually love to rub my victory in your face for a while longer, Katniss, but I have a date with a new bottle. Besides, the two of you clearly can’t wait for me to leave.”

“You know that’s not true,” I say, but even I can hear how unconvincing my voice sounds.

Peeta goes to the door to say goodbye to Haymitch while I take the empty glasses back to the kitchen. When Peeta returns, I instantly find myself pressed against the fridge by his large frame as he continues where he left off.

“Do you remember the first time we made out in the kitchen?” he murmurs against my neck as he kisses his way down to my collarbone.

I tilt my head to give him better access to my neck. “Yes.” My voice is husky.

“You were wearing that dress, and you looked so unbelievably beautiful in it. And sexy. You were on fire. You were jealous of Cashmere, even though you didn’t want to admit it, and I have to confess that I found that pretty hot as well.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. Angry, jealous Katniss? You have no idea how close I was to just ripping your dress off and taking you against the fridge.”

I stare at him, panting. At his words I feel something tingling along my spine, almost electric, down to between my legs. “As tempting as that sounds, I think taking this upstairs would be a lot more comfortable.” I’m still trapped against the fridge, and Peeta doesn’t seem like he’s planning on letting me go anytime soon. “If, that is, this is going in the direction I think it is?”

“It is.” He tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear, and the action is surprisingly sweet and gentle, considering what we’re doing, and how his erection is pressed against my belly.

“Come to bed with me?” I whisper against his throat. I wouldn’t mind being taken against the fridge, actually I wouldn’t mind it one bit. But there’s a time for everything, and if this is going to be our first real time together, I want it to be something more than that. 

He takes a step back, releasing me. We go to my room, our fingers intertwined. I lock the door behind us. We’ve been doing that lately, in case Arrow wakes up. I turn around and look at him. His fists are clenched as he stares at me. His pupils are fat and his skin flushed.

“Stop thinking,” I tell him. I run my index finger over his lower lip. There are so many things that separate us. The Capitol. People in District 12. Gale. Mistakes that were made on that night before he went to the Capitol. The one thing that keeps us together is the bond that has been there all along. For him, it started back when we were five. For me, it started in the rain with the burned bread. Perhaps this was inevitable? Perhaps we were always going to do this?

His hands slide up under my dress, pushing it up. I lift my arms, and he effortlessly pulls the dress up over my head. I stand before him in just my panties and bra. He’s seen me before, of course, many times. But tonight is different, and we both know it.

His hands move down to the hem of my panties, and he pushes them down over my hips. I don’t hesitate, either. I make quick work of his shirt, and he helps me get rid of his pants and finally his boxer briefs. Our bodies don’t part any longer than they have to – as soon as our clothes are out of the way, we’re pressed against each other again. Feeling his erection burning against my hip causes me to gasp against his neck.

“I love you,” he groans against my neck as he kisses a trail down towards my collarbone. “I’ve loved you for so long.”

He’s ahead of me, he always was. I _want_ to say it back, but I’m not sure if I can. Either way, I’m unable to form a coherent sentence because his lips are closing around a nipple, taking it into his mouth, sucking on it as his tongue dances teasingly over the tip. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

“It’s okay if you can’t say it back, Katniss,” he says. “I understand.” He pushes me gently on my back, moving so that he’s hovering above me. My thighs part automatically, and he moves in between them. I can feel his erection against my center now, and he slides against me easily. I’m so wet, so unbelievably wet.

Peeta notices, too. He releases my breast and looks at me with a dazed expression on his face as he moves his hips so that his cock slides over my clit. My back arches underneath him, and I have to struggle to stay more or less silent to avoid waking the children. His low moans and gasps mingle with mine as he repeats his movements against me.

I squirm underneath him, and he lets me go. I guide him onto his back as I hover above him. My hands trail lower, from his perfectly toned chest, over his smooth and hard belly. He smiles reassuringly, a smile which is quickly replaced by a strangled “ooooh” as my hands find what they were looking for. I grip around him. His cock is already slick with both his and my fluids. I lazily pump him with one hand, supporting my body weight with the other. His face is like an open book to me now, as are his sounds. His hands roam over my back and upper arms, and he groans in my ear. Hearing him react to my touch turns me on so much I distantly wonder if this alone is enough to make me come. I whimper involuntarily as one of his hands slips between my legs. His breathing quickens, and I know he must be close, but I can’t bring myself to stop.

Fortunately, Peeta manages to keep a level head. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he says gruffly. “I don’t want to come like this.” He flips me over, catching both of my wrists with one hand over my head. He’s done this once before, but it’s not the same now. Instead of making me feel vulnerable as it did before, tonight it makes blood rush to between my legs, where I’m now throbbing almost painfully. He’s got me pinned down in bed as he stares at me with fully dilated pupils, his chest heaving, clearly trying to regain control of himself, of the situation. “My turn.”

He keeps my wrists trapped in a firm, but not painful grip. If I wanted to, I’d be able to get my arms free, but I don’t try. It’s oddly arousing to be under his control like this. He shifts his body, from resting his body weight on my thighs, one knee on each side of me, to between my thighs, coaxing them to spread open for him. His free hand travels lower. He doesn’t waste any time – we are both too far gone for that now. He swallows my scream with a kiss as his index finger finds my clit. “Quiet,” he cautions when he releases my lips. I nod breathlessly as two fingers slip inside me, and immediately, my good intentions are very nearly forgotten. He moves them in and out of me, and it’s almost too much. I close my eyes, but he immediately stops what he’s doing. “Open your eyes,” he says, his voice commanding but gentle. “Look at me.”

I do, and our eyes meet. I understand. He needs to see _me_. But it’s so hard to keep my eyes open when I feel myself getting closer. He curls his fingers, finding that spot inside me, the one I didn’t know was there until Peeta found it. The strangled sounds that escape from my throat are entirely too loud. I don’t know where I find the air to speak, but I do. “Please, Peeta, I need… I want…” I’m unable to complete my sentence, but he understands. His arms tremble as he shifts his weight, releasing his grip on my hands, and his cock makes direct contact with my wetness again. My hands find his hair, tugging his head closer. When we end the kiss, he stares at me, his eyes wide open.

I can feel him pressing against me, slipping between my folds. He’s so close and so hard, and I’m so wet, there’s no need for him to use his hand to guide himself. I shift my hips slightly and he enters me. I breathe deeply as I allow my body to adjust to his. It’s been a while, and he’s big. He holds his breath until he is all the way inside me, buried to the hilt, and then exhales with a shuddering sigh. Neither of us moves. “You feel incredible,” he says, and he bends down to whisper huskily in my ear. “I can’t believe we’re finally doing this.”

We have done this before, of course. But I know what he means. Tonight, we are doing this properly.  

“This is real,” I whisper back, and I prove it with a thrust of my hips. He reflexively meets my movement, and he slides even deeper. My hands travel down to his hips, following his movements and encouraging them as he starts thrusting slowly, then faster as he sees me respond. Strangled moans and gasps are the only sounds in the room, along with the steady, wet slapping of skin meeting skin. 

I’m so close, but I know I’ll need just a little bit more stimulation to come. He must see it in my face, because he tilts my hips slightly, and the base of his cock catches on my clit with every stroke. I muffle my scream with a hand, and I can see his face contort as he speeds up. When I come, I cling to him, my fingernails scratching his back as I spasm around him. He doesn’t miss a single stroke; he has found the perfect rhythm, and he keeps it as I ride through my orgasm. When I come down from my high, his cock still pulsing inside me, he keeps still. His shoulders are tense; he’s clearly struggling to maintain control. I squeeze my inner muscles around him, and he emits a strangled groan. He thrusts a few more times, the rhythm erratic now, and then he cums inside me with a muffled groan.

He slumps down on top of me. We are both gasping for breath. He starts to move, to slip out of me, but I hold him closer with my arms and my legs. “Stay,” I murmur in his ear. I don’t want him to leave my body, not quite yet.

He shifts parts of his body weight over to his elbows, allowing him to lift up his head and look down at me. “Always,” he whispers back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been 21 chapters, and they are finally(!) doing this right. I did tag it “slow burn”, didn’t I? Well, it definitely has been. I’m going to have to split the next chapter, so there are four chapters left – two written in Peeta’s POV, one in Katniss’s POV, and finally a short epilogue. I said I was going to finish this fic before Christmas – it doesn’t look like I will be able to do that after all, but I think January or early February should be realistic. 
> 
> I’d like thank everyone who’s reviewed, sent PMs and asks, favorited, followed and left kudos. I am absolutely floored by the response TMW has received. I do love to hear from you – leave me a review or come talk to me on Tumblr! I’m mockingjayflyingfree over there as well.
> 
> Oh, and I’ll be posting a hijacked!Peeta fic soon, hopefully next week – I’ll post it here on AO3 only. Because it is - surprise! - smutty.


	23. October

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!
> 
> I know it's been more than a month since my last update, but this chapter is nice and long at almost 9,000 words, so hopefully you'll forgive me! I published the first chapter of TMW on February 27th 2014, and hopefully I'll be able to wrap up the story by the end of February. But no promises - I'm working on the next chapter, but it's still not anywhere near where I want it to be. I know from experience that writing the last few chapters of a long fic is challenging, so if it takes me another month (or longer) to update, at least you'll know why. 
> 
> Thank you so much to Lbug84 for betaing and Chelzie for prereading. I don't know what I'd do without you.

**Peeta’s POV**

I’m a baker, so I'm always up early. It used to be a curse. I was unable to sleep in, even when I had been plagued by nightmares most of the night and desperately needed more rest. Now, though, I get more sleep than I have ever since before I was reaped.

There is an unexpected bonus to waking up at five in the morning: waking up before Katniss. The window is open and the air in the bedroom is cool. Katniss is pressed against my chest, and her black hair tickles my bare skin. She’s not wearing anything, and her skin is so warm it’s almost burning against mine.

Her complexion is the perfect shade of olive, her cheeks still rosy. Her eyelashes are black and long, her eyelids flutter slightly. She must be dreaming. This is my favorite time of the day. I can lie in bed, warm, safe, and actually rested. I can look at her.

It’s something I never get tired of.

Katniss is an enthusiastic lover. At first, she was uncomfortable about the light being on. She was shy, maybe even reluctant to show me her body. I don’t know why, she looks perfect. No, not perfect. She looks _real_. And she’s beautiful. It wasn't until a few nights ago that I learned just why the light makes her feel uncomfortable.

_“Would you tell me if I did something wrong?” she whispered._

_“What do you mean?”_

_“You know," she shifted uncomfortably and cleared her throat. "In bed," she explained, but her voice was still a whisper. "I don’t have all that much experience.” She hid her face against my chest._

_“Katniss,” I said. I gently tried to lift her chin to make her look up at me. She resisted, refusing to meet my eyes. “Does it_ seem _like I’m not satisfied?”_

_She didn’t answer right away. I gave her time. “No,” she finally said, her voice low._

_“Then why are you worried?”_

_“Because Gale was the only one, and I…” Her voice trailed off._

_“I know.” She told me, long ago. Having had only one lover was a privilege I never had._

_She looked up at me and seemed defensive. “There was no one else for me."_

_"You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” I told her. Even though it made me feel like a fool, I was relieved that she hadn’t been with anyone else. Talk about double standards._

_“I know I can’t compete with them,” she blurted out. I looked at her, stunned. Her eyes were brimming with tears._

_“Katniss, you’re not competing with anyone.”_

_“I’m not talking about your clients, but your_ **real** lovers.”  
  
I clenched my jaw. “It's never been like this with any of them. I don’t care who you’ve been with before, and I would never compare you to anyone else. What matters is that you’re here now, with me, and I love every single thing we do together.” I pulled her closer to me.

_“Really?” Her voice was hopeful, but still a bit insecure._

_“The last thing I think about when I’m with you is an ex-lover.” I emphasized the word ‘ex’, and in between my words, I kissed a trail down her chest. “It’s just you and me, remember?”_

_She looked relieved, but deep down, I knew I wasn’t telling her the truth. My lips rushed against her lower belly and thankfully distracted her from asking any more questions. She parted her thighs for me with a shuddering sigh._

_We didn’t talk after that._

As I lie here with her sleeping body so close to mine, I know that part of what I told her is true. I _don’t_ compare her to anyone else. But it's not just us. I can’t keep my two worlds completely separate. All the time I’ve spent in the Capitol has changed me over the years. I can’t just forget that the Capitol exists when I’m in 12. But I can try not to let the situation affect Katniss any more than it has to.

Katniss shifts in her sleep, mumbling something quietly. I grow hard again at the thought of what she looked like last night, as she climaxed with me inside of her. She was wild, dark, and passionate. I had no idea that seeing a woman’s pleasure could turn me on so much. Her grip around my waist tightens, and for a second, I consider waking her up in the most pleasurable way possible to do it all over again.

But I am a baker. The dough I prepared last night should be ready to go into the oven now. I planned to make fresh bread for breakfast. Besides, Katniss needs her sleep. I kept her up late, very late, and I’m not sorry that I did. But later, in the middle of the night, she had a nightmare. She usually doesn’t have nightmares. When I woke her up, she wouldn’t tell me what she had been dreaming about, but she did allow me to hold her until she finally fell asleep again.

I carefully disentangle myself from her grasp, hoping I won’t wake her. She sighs deeply and curls up under the duvet. All I can see of her now is her hair peeking out from under the cover.

I swear under my breath as the ice cold air hits my naked body. I quickly put on a sweater, underwear and a pair of jeans, and step downstairs into the kitchen. I preheat the oven and let it get hot while I quickly mold four loaves of dough. Kneading dough is like therapy. It always was for me, long before the Hunger Games.

As I finish, I notice that Katniss hasn’t flipped the calendar. It still says September. But it’s already October 4th. I close the oven and set the timer. I turn to look at the calendar again. I furrow my brow.

Then I understand. It’s been a year, nearly to the day, since that dark October night when we met briefly in the rain. When I turned my back on her, newly widowed and alone with a little boy and an infant, even when I knew that they would starve. When I think about the man I was back then, it doesn’t even feel like I’m the same person, and I know I owe it all to her.

She hasn’t mentioned that the anniversary of her husband’s passing is coming up, not one word. Was the nightmare she had last night about losing him? 

When Katniss comes downstairs with the children, the bread is almost ready. She looks tired, and I long to give her a good morning kiss, but that wouldn't be appropriate in front of the children, so I don’t. I don’t say anything about the calendar either, but it has certainly opened my eyes to something I guess I should have realized earlier.

With a warm piece of bread in his mouth, Arrow sprints upstairs to fetch his backpack. “I can take him to school today if you want," I offer. "I’m going to Town anyway." I didn’t want to ask her in front of the boy, in case she doesn’t want me to take him.

She looks at me warily. “Are you sure it’s okay?”

I know what she means. People are talking. We have isolated ourselves from most of the district lately. We’ve had enough to deal with, just learning to be together. The two of us. Actually, the four of us. But we both know that in the long run, we can’t keep doing this, and the children are the most important reason why.

“Things seem to be going better at school now, don’t they?” I ask her.

“I’m actually not sure. Arrow doesn’t say much. I think the teacher tries, but I’ve found some of his homework torn to pieces in the bottom of his backpack, and Arrow would never do that.”

“If the other children are still picking on him, it’s the teacher’s responsibility to stop them. It doesn’t matter who his parents are.”

“Or who his mother sleeps with?”

I grit my teeth. Saying that we are only ‘sleeping together’ cheapens what we are to each other. But I know that’s what we are in the eyes of people in 12. “Well… yes.”

“I guess I need to talk to the teacher again.” She sighs. “Haymitch was right. People in 12 are conservative, and living together without being married is unacceptable here.” She doesn’t meet my eyes. Our relationship is taboo. There’s our living together, sharing a bed every night, without any formal commitment. Even if we could, even if there was no Capitol, formalizing our relationship would be out of the question now, anyway. It’s too soon after Gale’s passing. I don’t want to bring it up though, at least not now. Not this morning, not when Arrow needs to be at school on time.

Not when the anniversary of her husband’s passing is in one week.

I hear Arrow’s footsteps as he bounds down the stairs, taking two at a time, and so does she. “You can take him to school,” she says quickly.

Arrow lights up when I tell him that I’ll be walking with him to school today. It will be nice to spend some time just the two of us, even if it's brief. It's raining lightly, so we dress in waterproof coats and galoshes. He jumps into the puddles on the road, and laughs in delight when I do the same thing.  I haven’t jumped in puddles since I was very young. My mother would be cross with me if I arrived home wet and dirty, so I stopped playing in puddles long before I reached Arrow’s age.

Katniss never yells at Arrow when he comes home all wet and muddy. I tell him he shouldn’t jump into the biggest puddles, though, because he’s got to be in school all day, and it’s going to be cold if he’s wet.

Arrow grows quieter as we get closer to the school. I remember what he did last winter, how he protected his mother - or thought that he did - by not telling her that he was being bullied. Is that what he is doing now, too? If things have gotten progressively worse for Katniss, there’s a good chance they have for Arrow, too.

I feel his hand against my leg, searching for my support and instinctively, I take his little hand in mine. He’s never done that before. We wordlessly walk the last few hundred yards until we reach the gate. There are many mothers here, and hardly any fathers. I see only two, and they are both clearly from Town. They all look at us and don’t really try to hide that they do. I hope I haven’t made this worse for Arrow by coming here with him.

“Do you see any of your friends here, Arrow?” I ask him in a low voice.

He nods. “Yes. Drew and Slate are over there.”

“Why don’t you run over there and play with them?”

“Okay. Will you come here to pick me up after school, Peeta? So we can jump in the big puddles on our way home? It doesn’t matter if I get wet when we’re going home anyway.”

“Yes, sir,” I say with a smile. I hope it’s okay with Katniss. I shouldn’t make decisions for her son, but there’s no way I can say no to him right now. Not when I’m holding his hand to comfort him.

“Bye, Arrow. Have fun today!”

“Thanks! Goodbye, Peeta.”

I let go of his hand and watch him run over to his two friends. They are both dark-haired, olive-skinned and far too thin. They talk, but before they have the chance to start playing, the bell rings and all the children rush inside. Soon the parents have left, too. I’m the only one still standing here, staring at the empty schoolyard.

A security guard approaches me. He's obviously from Town, but he must be several years younger than me, so I don’t recognize him. He nods his head, suggesting that I move away, and rightly so, since this is an elementary school. But when I ask him if it's possible to speak with the principal, he looks me up and down before unlocking the gate. He knows very well who I am, of course.

I walk through the gate. I haven’t been to a school in a long time, not since before I was reaped. Victors aren’t required to finish their schooling. We don’t need a trade. After I returned to 12 for the first time, I did consider going back to school, if only to have something to do. To meet my friends, to try to pretend to have a normal life. But I was exhausted because the nightmares kept me awake half the night, and besides, my friends had moved on. Or maybe it was me, maybe I had changed too much. We no longer had anything in common. After my first season in the Capitol, returning to school was unthinkable. I guess I found a trade after all. One that no school in 12 could prepare me for.

The security guard escorts me to the administration office. I let him lead me, since it's protocol, but I know where it is. I was sent there a few times for not paying attention to the teacher in class. More often than not, it was because I was daydreaming as I was looking at Katniss’s braid. She sat two rows ahead of me in class, next to Madge. Katniss never looked back at me, though.

The school secretary tells me the principal is in. “I’ll let Mr. Lakewood know you’re here."

“Thank you.”

I claim a seat and a few minutes later, she tells me I can go in. I knock on the open door as I enter. The room is quiet and dark. It’s as if nothing has changed in the last 20 years. The desk, in massive mahogany, is the same. The carpet, the heavy curtains – even the headmaster himself is the same. But unlike the desk, he has clearly aged. Mr. Lakewood stands by the window, looking out. I clear my throat impatiently, and he turns to face me.

“Mr. Mellark. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Indeed.” He’s not looking down at me anymore. Now I’m the one who’s looking down at him. It’s been 20 years since the last time I was in this room. He had power over me back then, but now I’m the one who has power over him. “I know you’re a busy man, Mr. Lakewood, so I’m not going to waste your time. I suppose you can guess why I am here?”

“I saw you escort young Mr. Hawthorne to school. That’s very kind of you.”

“Arrow is a seven-year-old boy, Mr. Lakewood. He's lost a parent and been through major changes in the past year."

Mr. Lakewood looks nervous now. Good. “Yes. I'm aware. We are all concerned. However, since you are neither his parent nor his guardian, I'm afraid I cannot discuss this with you.”

He's hiding behind policy, so I adjust my approach. "What is the school’s official policy against bullying? I remember sitting in this very chair next to my mother after I put a frog in Delly Cartwright's desk."

Mr. Lakewood's mouth turns up in the beginnings of a smile. He remembers that day, just as I do. "Boys will be boys," he smiles. "I remember that little prank of yours."

"I got her good," I chuckle and he laughs along with me. "But I still ended up in your office. Still got disciplined. I believe 'zero tolerance' were your exact words."

"Yes. They were," he admits as his smile fades.

"Has that policy been changed?"

"Of course not."

"Well, from what Arrow has told me, both Hawke Grayson and Gregory Ellwood have been giving him a hard time. Arrow doesn’t use the word, but it’s clear they have been bullying him. Then there are assignments that are complete when he leaves the house, but come back as shreds at the bottom of his backpack. And with the recent impact on his grades, we have reason to believe that the teachers aren’t treating him appropriately, either.” The latter is somewhat speculative, but I throw that out there to gauge his reaction. I see Mr. Lakewood pale in front of me, and immediately understand that my gut feeling is indeed correct.

"I really can't discuss this with you," he insists. He’s looking very pale right now.

"I understand. Let's take Arrow out of the equation for a moment." I run my index finger along the smooth mahogany. “In general, bullying is unacceptable. It is your job as headmaster to take action, and make sure every child is treated properly. And because these things start at the top, I have to assume that you're aware of the situation, but you are not taking any action to correct it. I expect you to do everything in your power to stop all bullying. I also expect you to control your staff, and discipline them if necessary.”

“I don’t…”

I lift my hand to silence him. I’m not interested in hearing his excuses. “The superintendent of schools is a regular at the President's mansion. He recently mentioned how many well qualified candidates are currently looking for work as a school administrator."

"Is that a fact?"

"It's an awful time to be out of work. Isn't it, Mr. Lakewood?"

 His expression hardens and he answers through gritted teeth. "Terrible."

I guess I should feel bad about threatening him, but I don’t. Not really. All I care about is Arrow’s well-being.

I smile, and I can see thatit makes the old man even more uncomfortable. “Good. I’m glad we understand each other.” I lean forward in the chair. “Oh, and one last thing.”

“Yes?” He looks hopeful, now that I’ve said that I’m leaving.

“Let's keep this talk between the two of us.”

“Of course."    

 

* * *

 

Katniss still doesn’t flip the calendar, and neither do I. I know that she has to be the one to do it. With every passing day, it becomes increasingly clear that she hasn’t just forgotten to flip the calendar because she’s too busy. She’s deliberately avoiding it.

She’s distracted and tense, and it gets worse with each passing day. One afternoon, when I come back from checking on Haymitch, her eyes are red and she has obviously been crying. She no longer takes the initiative for us to be intimate, and neither do I. It’s clearly not what she needs from me right now. But she does allow me to hold her close at night, and for that, I’m grateful. I know what’s bothering her now, but I have to wait for her to open up to me in her own time.

When she finally cries in front of me for the first time, there’s nothing I can do but hold her, nothing I can say will make this any better. When she calms down, her face is swollen and her eyes are lifeless. “I'm crying over one man in the arms of another. How awful is that?”

It breaks my heart to see her like this. “You have nothing to be ashamed of,” I assure her.

“Maybe I do,” she says. “It hasn’t even been a year. Maybe they are all right.” Her voice is insecure, defeated.

“No, Katniss. That’s not true.” It pains me, but I have to ask. “Do you want me to leave? Do you want to be alone?” If she wants space, I need her to tell me so I can go to my own room for the night.

She shakes her head, and her grip on me tightens. “No. Please stay with me.”

“Always,” I murmur in her ear.

 

* * *

 

It’s October 9th. Two days before the anniversary of Gale’s passing. I walk with Arrow to school. I wish Katniss would get out of the house more. Some fresh air would do her good, but I’m honestly not sure if she’d be able to face the other mothers and their staring right now. So I take her son to school instead, which I’ve done the last few days.

Arrow is unusually quiet on the way to school, but thankfully I see him running over to his friends and start chatting when we get there. With the way things are right now, I think it’s good for him to get out of the house. While I’m standing outside the school, I catch the motion of blinds opening from a window inside the school. When I look, I see Mr. Lakewood, clearly watching the students as they filter into the building. I smile politely at him, but he looks nervous as he waves back in greeting. He has every reason to be nervous. He knows that I’m watching him.

Arrow's assignments have come home graded and in one piece since my talk with Mr. Lakewood, but his mood still gets lower the closer we get to the school each morning. One problem at a time, I suppose – but if I don’t see an improvement in Arrow’s mood soon, I suppose I’ll have to pay Mr. Lakewood another visit.

I run a few errands in Town, but on my way back to the Victors’ Village, I decide to take a detour to the Seam. I don’t come this way often, except for when I go to the Hob. But for once, I’m not here for the white liquor.

I’ve never been to Prim’s house before, but I know the address. I tentatively knock on the door. She could have a patient, or she might not be home. But I hear murmurs, and soon I hear steps behind the door, over the sounds of children playing.

Her eyes widen in surprise when she sees me. “Peeta!”

“Prim. How are you?” I’m not sure if she even wants to talk to me, but I have to try.

“I’m, uh, good. How are you?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” There’s an awkward pause.

“Do you want to come inside?” she finally offers.

“Thank you.”

I take in my surroundings curiously. I can count the number of times I’ve been inside a Seam home on one hand, and they were all back when I was in primary school. My mother never liked it when I socialized with kids from the Seam, so she made sure to steer me towards friends from respected Town families instead.

I know all the houses in the Seam are almost identical, so I suspect this house is the same size as the homes of the Seam friends I visited, but it seems much smaller. I realize that part of it is probably because I myself have grown.

Even though it’s small, and I know money is tight, I instantly like Prim’s home.  I smile. “You have a lovely home,” I tell her, and I mean it. It’s cozy, warm and clean – but most importantly, it feels lived in. There’s a clear color scheme in here. They are mainly warm colors – red, yellow, orange – nicely complimenting the gray slate that covers the wall with the fireplace, and the pale wood of the floors. There are a few old photos on the wall, and I recognize a photo of Katniss’s father among them.

“Thank you.” Another awkward silence.

The twins are clearly curious about me. “Are you sick?” One of them, I’m not sure whether it’s Thomas or Ridge, asks me.

“No,” I tell them. “I came here to talk to your Mama.” If she’ll talk to me.

Prim gives me a look I can’t quite interpret. “Why don’t you play with grandpa’s old toy box while I speak with Mr. Mellark?” she suggests.

“Yes!” they say in unison. I bet they do that a lot.

Prim leans against an armoire in the hallway. She retrieves an old wooden box from a drawer and opens it. I don't know if she tilts the box so that I can see or if I'm leaning in of my own accord, but she smiles sadly at what's inside: a collection of tin soldiers that must be a hundred years old. A rare treasure in 12.

"Here," she says as she places the open box into one of the boys' hands. They light up and hurry out of sight.

“Let’s go to the kitchen to talk,” she says quietly, and I nod. I follow her to the kitchen.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asks.

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

The water from her faucet is slightly brown, just like it is in all of the Seam. But the tea itself isn't loose. From an old ceramic jar that's seen better days, she pulls out a shiny, triangular-shaped tea bag. It's from the Capitol. I recognize it because it's my tea. Katniss must have brought it here for her. “I figured we could need some privacy, and the tin soldiers are one of the few things that can keep them quiet for more than two minutes.”

“Did the tin soldiers belong to your father?”

She shakes her head. “They belonged to Thom’s father. He died from miner’s lung just before we got married.” She sighs heavily. “So, I heard you’re taking Arrow to school these days.”

Word travels fast. “Yes, I am.”

“Are you sure that's wise?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" I raise an eyebrow at her, but she doesn't give me a reason. "I don’t think Katniss feels up to taking him to school right now.”

“How is she?”

“I’m worried about her.”

“I’ve been meaning to visit, but I haven’t,” she says guiltily. “Fall is the busiest time of the year. I’ve just been so overloaded with work lately, and then both twins got sick, and they’ve only just recovered.”

“That's understandable,” I try to comfort her.

“I’ll stop by tomorrow. Unless Mrs. Beech goes into labor, it could be any day now.”

“Thank you. I’m sure Katniss will appreciate it.”

When the water is brought to a boil, she pours it into a chipped cup. “Do you take sugar in your tea?” she asks.

“No, thank you.” I don't usually take sugar in my tea, and even if I did, I wouldn't here. Sugar is expensive.

She sits down with her own cup, also unsweetened.

I take a sip of tea. Even though it's from the Capitol, it tastes different when it’s brewed with the water from the Seam. Earthy. “I came to you because, well, like I said, I’m worried about Katniss, and you know her better than anyone else. You were there when Gale passed away, and after.”

“I was.” She puts her cup down. “It’s been a year.”

So she knows. “Yes.”

“What does she say about it?”

“Not much,” I admit.

“Katniss doesn’t talk much about her emotions, especially when she’s upset.”

“Tell me about it.” I can’t help but roll my eyes, and Prim actually smiles. Her smile quickly dies when I continue, though. “She’s feeling guilty. That’s pretty much all I’ve gotten out of her.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised, the situation being what it is.” I open my mouth to answer, but she cuts me off before I have the chance to speak. “Look, I’m trying not to judge here,” she says quickly. “There's more between you two than most of us are aware of.” I shift uncomfortably in my chair, and I can tell she notices. “Katniss showed me the painting.” I furrow my brow. What is she talking about? “The one you made of her when she was five,” she explains. “In the red plaid dress.”

I clench my jaw. “I didn’t know that.” I painted that so long ago. In fact, it was one of the very first paintings I made of Katniss, and it is intensely personal to me. I never intended for anyone to see it, and certainly not Katniss’s sister.

“I hope you don’t mind that she showed it to me.” She looks at me questioningly.

I shake my head reluctantly. “I guess it doesn’t matter.” But if I’m being honest, it does.

“I was afraid that you were just using her. It would be so easy for you to take advantage of her, and at one point, you did. She’s vulnerable, and you can have anything or anyone you want in all of 12. I was worried about her. Peeta, she _loves_ you. She showed me that painting to convince me that your feelings for her are real, too.”

“They are. I love her. I’m not using her.”

She shakes her head. “No, I don't think you are, not anymore. But make no mistake - as long as Katniss is in a relationship with someone with close ties with the Capitol, I’ll worry about her.” Prim is smart. She is right to worry.

“I won’t hurt her." Again. I won't hurt her again. "I promise.”

“We’ll see." She sips her tea and leans back. "So what brought you all the way to the Seam? I doubt you're here just to give me an explanation.”

“Oh. Well..." I trail off and take a sip of my tea. "Is there anything you can tell me about Katniss – or about Katniss and Gale – that can help me support her as she goes through this?”

Prim shakes her head slowly. “The first few days after the accident, she was just in shock, I guess. Then she went into survival mode. There was no food, no money. Winter was coming. She didn’t really have the chance to grieve.”

She has grieved now. But I won't explain that to her. I don't know how much Katniss has told her.

Prim sighs. “I’ve seen my own mother sink into depression until she wasn’t able to take care of her children anymore. Thankfully, that didn’t happen with Katniss – and if it hasn’t happened until now, I don’t think it will. I think – _hope_ – that this first anniversary will be the worst.”

“I hope so, too.”

“I don’t think she really started to deal with her loss until you went to the Capitol in March. You saw what she was like when you came back, right?” I nod. “So you’ve been there for her before. I think you know as much about dealing with her grief as I do. Don’t pressure her to talk. She’ll talk if she wants to. Just be there.”

One of the twins comes in the doorway, holding something in his hand. Prim smiles at her son. “What have you got there, Thomas?” she asks.

“A soldier. Will you play with us, Mama?”

“I’ll be there in a minute, Thomas. Go play with Ridge in the meantime, okay?”

The boy pouts, but accepts her decision. "Okay.”

“I have to go home anyway,” I tell her. “Thank you for the tea – and for the talk." I really do appreciate her time. I wasn’t sure if she would be willing to speak with me at all.

She raises an eyebrow. “You show much more humility than I would’ve thought, considering you’re a victor,” she says with a smile.

“I try not to think of myself as a victor.”

“Well, you are. Hard to get around it.” That’s true. “I have a question for you, though.”

“Yes?”

“What exactly are your intentions with my sister?”

I hesitate. “That's a loaded question, and the answer is complicated.”

“Is it really? Please enlighten me.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “You live in the same house. You love each other. You’re sleeping together. Most people in your situation are married, or will be soon. I know it’s still too soon after Gale’s death, but in a year or two, you’d be free to marry. What’s so complicated about that?”

I look around nervously. This house is most likely not bugged, but I still need to be careful. I can’t tell her all the reasons why I need to be single, at least on paper. But I can tell her part of the truth. “We can’t get married. I can’t have any kind of formal relation to the children.”

“Why not?”

“Because they would be reaped.” I hold her gaze. I can’t say anything else, in fact, I’ve probably already said too much.

I expect her to show signs of surprise, shock even, but there aren’t any. “You still wouldn’t be their father, unless you adopted them.”

Adoption is certainly not something Katniss and I have ever discussed. That doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it, though. “Marrying their mother, even without an adoption, would still be too dangerous. My housekeeper’s children would most likely not be reaped, but I’m afraid my wife’s children would.”

Her eyes darken, and she presses her lips together. “The Capitol is always controlling our lives.” She spits the words out.

“You don’t seem surprised that the reapings are rigged.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“I’m not. I watch the Hunger Games every year, just like everyone else. Don’t you think I’ve noticed that the victors’ children tend to get reaped? Besides, I’m a healer. There’s hardly a house in 12 that I haven’t visited. I hear things every now and then. Whispers. Sometimes where you would least expect them.”

Our eyes meet. “Well, for your own safety, you should never repeat those whispers to anyone, especially not to Katniss. They’re watching her now, and you have close ties to her. You have to be careful.”

“Is it ever going to end, Peeta?” To my surprise, Prim has tears in her eyes. She doesn’t really look like Katniss usually, but in this moment, there’s no mistaking that they are sisters.

“I don’t know.” One of the boys starts crying in the other room, distracting her.

“I should go,” I tell her.

“And I have to break up the fight,” she sighs. “Thank you for coming, Peeta."

I leave Prim’s house, hoping no one will see me. I go to the Hob afterwards, so I have an excuse for being here in the Seam. I consider buying Haymitch a bottle of white liquor, but I decide against it. Instead, I buy some baby clothes, well used but still in one piece and hopefully warm. On my walk home, I drop them off at the orphanage.

 

* * *

 

Prim does come to visit the next day. I open the door, and when Prim sees me, she smiles. We exchange a few words about the weather and the smell of fresh bread in the house. Katniss looks from Prim over to me, then back to her sister. I can practically see the wheels turning in her head. I don’t want to get into it right now, so I make up an excuse to leave the house and go to see Haymitch. I think the two sisters need some time alone together anyway.

Haymitch is passed out on the porch when I arrive, and I don’t wake him. He sleeps peacefully, and I know better than to disturb the sleep of a victor who doesn’t have nightmares. I sit down in his kitchen. With every passing day, Katniss is getting progressively worse. The anniversary of Gale's death is tomorrow, and I selfishly hope that she will improve after it has passed. If she doesn’t, I’m honestly not sure what I’ll do.

 

* * *

 

At night, I sit on the couch, pretending to read. I don't concentrate on the words on the page, though. Instead I peer over the book in my hands and study Katniss as she sits by the fireplace, staring at the fire with a distant look on her face.

“It’s late,” I say. “Do you want to go to bed?”

She lifts her gaze to look at me, but then her eyes flicker away again. “I don’t think I can do it,” she says, her voice strained. “Not tonight.”

“Okay.” I sit down next to her, but don’t touch her. “Katniss?” I say softly. “Please look at me?”

The light from the flames seems to set her skin on fire, but her eyes are almost black and look unnaturally large in her face. She looks at me only for a moment before turning back to the fire again. “I don't know what’s going on in your head right now. I don't know what you need,” I say. “But I'm here. Okay?”

She nods wordlessly. I kiss her forehead chastely and say goodnight. I go to bed alone. My bed is too big without her in it.

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t rain today like it did last year. The sun is shining. In fact, it’s an almost painfully beautiful fall day. The colors of the leaves are so vivid it’s almost like a Capitol photo, complete with color filter enhancement. The air is crisp and fresh. I don’t think Katniss notices, though. Of course she doesn’t.

Arrow’s not going to school today. Instead, Katniss is taking him and Ivy to Hazelle’s house. Ivy understands that today is special. She sees that her mama and her brother are sad, but she’s too young to understand what’s going on. Arrow, on the other hand, is not. He is unusually quiet, until he throws a tantrum at the breakfast table. He hardly ever does that. He doesn’t stop screaming until Katniss puts her arms around him and holds him tight. Then he starts crying in earnest, like the fatherless seven-year-old that he is.

After they have gone to the Seam, I decide to visit Haymitch. I can’t be alone today, and I need to talk to someone. Thankfully, he’s awake. I’m not sure if he slept last night, or if he simply hasn’t gone to bed yet.

“How are you holding up?” he asks me.

“I’m not the person you should be asking that question,” I tell him, as I look at the bottle of white liquor in his hand longingly. But I know I can’t.

“It sucks to be her, sure, but it sucks to be you, too. Your girlfriend grieving another man? If that doesn’t suck, then I don’t know what does.”

My girlfriend? It’s the first time anyone’s called Katniss that. It’s the first time I’ve thought of her as my girlfriend, too. We’ve never defined what we are. The most obvious description would be lovers, but we haven’t even said that word out loud either.

“Give her time,” he says.

“Yeah.” I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what she needs. I can only hope that she’ll tell me.

 

* * *

 

 

When the children are in bed and we are alone, I ask Katniss about her visit at Hazelle’s.

“It was good,” she says, but her eyes are red and still puffy.

“Were they all there?”

“Just my sisters-in-law and their children. Not Vick and Rory, though.” Of course. They are in the mines all day, six days a week. “It was good to be together,” she says, her voice more determined now. “Hazelle told Arrow stories from when Gale was a boy. She even had a photo of him, from when he was around Arrow’s age. I hadn’t seen it before. Arrow looks so much like him.” Her voice breaks again, but she forces herself to keep her composure.

She holds her cup of tea between her hands, but she doesn’t drink from it. She stares at the brownish liquid, her eyes absent. “I feel like such a horrible person,” she says, her voice low. “For being with you so soon. And then I feel guilty because I’m feeling so guilty for being with you.” She shakes her head. “I can’t win, can I? I’m trapped in this circle of guilt. You don’t deserve that; you don’t deserve to be with someone who’s ashamed of being with you.”

“Katniss,” I say, wishing I could reach out for her now, but I can’t. “There’s no right or wrong when it comes to this. You can't help how you feel.”

“The last time Gale and I were together was the night before he died,” she says. She stares at me now, not her cup of tea. It hurts just to think about it, about Katniss being with Gale. But I know that they were, of course. I had no right to her, none at all. He was her husband, the father of her children. “I couldn’t share a bed with you yesterday when all I could think about was that night.”

“I understand.” I do, sort of. As much as I can understand, considering I’ve never lost anyone the way she has.

She sets her cup down, and to my surprise, she kisses me. The kiss is demanding, deep and long. She takes control over it, and I let her. When our lips part, I’m breathing hard. “I need you right now.” Her eyes are like burning coal.

“You know I’ll always be here for you, Katniss.”

“I don’t need you to be there for me right now. I need you to fuck me, Peeta.” Without giving me the chance to respond, she kisses me again as she takes hold of my t-shirt and pulls me to my feet. I feel my body responding, even though I know it shouldn’t. I should say no. We’ve gone down this road before, being together when we’re hurting so bad, and it didn’t go well. But I’ve never been able to deny her anything.

"Is this is a good idea?” is all I’m able to get out when she ends the kiss to pull the t-shirt over my head.

“Probably not,” she says. “But I don’t care.” She’s already opened the fly of my jeans. I’m going to be stripped down to nothing in no time if she keeps this up. I grab her wrists, which causes her to look up at me. She’s on fire, burning with anger, pain, and sorrow. She is a combination of strength and vulnerability that I’ve never come across before. No, I’ve never been able to deny her anything, and I can’t tonight, either.

“Let’s go upstairs,” I say, caressing her cheek with one hand. “If you’re sure.” Under other circumstances, I wouldn’t have bothered to take this upstairs. But our first time was on that couch, and it was also triggered by trauma.

In her bedroom, she’s on me again. After removing my jeans and boxer briefs, she pushes me down on the bed, and pins me to it with her body weight as she sits on my hips. Her own clothes are lost in a frenzy of hands and skin and limbs, and before I really know what’s happening, she’s lowering herself onto me. Her eyes hold mine as my cock disappears into her body. Normally, I’d look at where our bodies join; it’s something I never tire of, but not tonight. Instead, I stare at her face, taut with pain and pleasure.

“Katniss,” I groan. I have to concentrate on my breathing to maintain control. I can usually control my orgasms very well, but the sight of Katniss riding me is so arousing, I could come right now if I allow myself to.

“Peeta,” she answers. Her voice is very clear, the ‘t’ almost too distinct. As if she’s reminding herself of just who she is with. 

This is for her. This is about giving her what she wants. She wants, _needs_ , control. She sets the pace. It’s slow and deep first, but it quickly becomes faster, harder, and almost frantic. I reach out my hand to touch her breasts. I pinch a nipple between my fingers, and she makes a sound I’ve never heard from her before, coming from deep in her chest.

“Ssssssshh,” I whisper as she moves her hips faster, rocking against me. I know it feels good, but she’s too loud. The children are asleep and we can’t wake them. She nods in understanding, her face flushed, and I can tell she tries to keep quiet. I feel the pressure building, and I know I won’t last much longer. Not when she’s controlling the speed, not when her moans are making my head spin, and certainly not with the visual stimulation of her bouncing breasts, dark, wild hair, and face twisted in passion and pain. 

Fuck, I’m going to come. I can't finish before she does. It's not what she needs. I reach down between us and find her clit, and her head falls back when I do. It’s the first time she looks away from me, and I take the opportunity to shut my eyes as well.

She leans forward, pressing her hands on my chest as she rides me to completion. She comes almost violently, so I have to clamp my hand over her mouth to muffle her scream.  She collapses on top of me, her forehead resting on my chest, her face hidden from me by her thick, black hair. She’s heaving for breath, I’m not sure if she’s crying or not. I haven’t come yet, though. I feel her walls still contracting around me, but seeing her pain is distracting me. Suddenly, she sits up. Her cheeks are dry. Her skin is flushed, but her face isn’t relaxed the way she usually looks after she’s come. She stares down at me, and I lick my lips, not sure what to do next. This will be on her terms tonight, that much is clear. What does she want?

“Are you okay, Katniss?”

She doesn’t answer right away. And when she does say something, she doesn’t answer my question. “There’s something we haven’t done yet,” she says. I furrow my brow. What is she talking about? There’s a whole lot of things we haven’t done yet. I sort of hope she will never even know about half of them.

She quickly moves off of me. She looks down at my cock, glistening with her juices, then back up to my face.  She turns around and lowers herself down to her knees and elbows, her legs slightly spread. There’s no mistaking her invitation. She’s right. This is something we _haven’t_ done before. I’ve always managed to avoid it. The reason is simple: It’s the position I favor over any other in the Capitol because I don’t have to look at my client’s face. It makes it easier to forget who they are.

I take a deep, shuddering breath and sit up. She looks back at me, her pupils large.

“I know you can’t see my face,” she says apologetically. So she understands.

I move on my knees behind her, but don’t touch her. No, I can’t see her face. And she can’t see mine. Is that what she wants? This could be bad for us. I look down at her, wet, swollen, and inviting. She looks over her shoulder, and our eyes meet.

“Do you like this?” I say, stroking my hand along the curve of her spine, down to her ass. I tangle the other in her hair, which has fallen to either side of her neck.

“Yes,” she answers, and I can feel how her body trembles. This is for her, I remind myself. This is what she wants.  I move closer to her, and she makes a sound deep in her throat and widens her knees for me. Her head sinks down on the mattress. I can’t see her face anymore.

But she’s still Katniss. My Katniss. Or is she? I’m not sure if she is mine right now. On today, of all days.

Perhaps it’s better if I try not to think. I plunge into her, appreciating how wet she is from her orgasm. I press deep into her and she clutches desperately at the pillow, drowning her scream in it. I still my movements. That wasn’t a scream of pain, but I still need to make sure. She moves her hip back against me, and I instinctively thrust into her.

The angle is different. The friction is different. She moans every time I pound into her. She writhes under me, and I can feel her walls shuddering around me. She must be close to coming again.

“You _really_ like this,” I groan.

“Yes,” she manages, in between two thrusts. But as soon as she’s said the word, her face is pressed against the pillow again.

What is she thinking right now? Despite everything, despite being afraid I was going to have a flashback, I’m able to stay in the moment. But is she? Does she even know who she’s with right now?

“Say my name.” I can feel my orgasm approaching fast. She gasps under me, but doesn’t answer. “ _Say my name_ ,” I repeat, more urgently now.

I honestly don’t know what I’ll do if she says _his_ name.

Finally, she lifts her head. “Peeta,” she whimpers.

“Louder,” I command her. I’m so deep, deeper than I’ve ever been before. I feel her contract around me.

“Peeta!” She screams as she comes, and with a series of erratic thrusts that force her flat onto her stomach, I follow her, coming deep inside of her. 

I collapse on top of her, my face buried in her black hair. My head is spinning, but I have enough presence of mind to support parts of my body weight on my elbows so I don’t crush her. She’s panting underneath me.

Then they start. Deep, heavy sobs. I pull out of her, lying down next to her, and turn her around so she’s facing me. Her eyes are open and she reaches out her hand, tracing my features with her fingertips. “Peeta.” Her voice is thick. “Peeta…”

“I’m here,” I whisper, barely able to hold my own tears back. “Always.” She continues to touch my face, lightly, wonderingly. “I love you.”

Her face contorts in pain. “I’m not able to say it back,” she croaks.

“It’s okay, Katniss. Don’t worry about it.” I kiss her forehead, drying her tears with my hand. “Please try to sleep?”

She must be exhausted. She falls asleep with her head on my shoulder almost instantly.

I don’t think I sleep much that night. I mostly just look at her. At the tiny freckles on the bridge of her nose. Her long, dark eyelashes that flutter in her sleep sometimes. At the moles on her neck and jaw. I try to memorize everything about her. I drift off from time to time, but I startle awake again and again. I half expect to find her gone, but she’s there every time, warm and asleep in my arms. 

The next time I wake, it’s light outside, and she’s awake, too. She is facing me, and our heads are on the same pillow. She’s so close it’s hard to focus on her features. She looks pale, but calm, and her eyes are a stormy gray.

“Good morning,” she whispers.

“Good morning.” I study her face closely. “Are you okay?”

“No.” She trails her finger along the line of my jaw. “But thank you for last night. For… doing that for me.”

“It’s okay.”

“Was it? Really?”

I’m not quite sure how to answer. Was what we did yesterday okay? I know that she used me, but I knew it all along, and I let her. And taking her from behind, which I had previously avoided, was surprisingly easy. I didn’t have any flashbacks. I _liked_ it.

She may have taken someone else into bed with us last night, but I didn’t.

“Yes.” I touch her lower lip lightly with my index finger. She holds her breath. “I still knew it was you.”

She hesitates. “I knew it was you, too,” she finally whispers. “All along.”

I pull her in for a hug to try to hide how relieved I am to hear that she did. Her body is warm and relaxed against mine.

“It can be good again. Okay?” I whisper into her hair. “I promise you that it can."

“Thank you,” she whispers back. If she finds it odd that I, as destroyed as I am, can tell her that everything can be good again, that it will be alright, she doesn’t say it. We don’t talk anymore, and we don’t kiss. We just hold each other. She’s here, and right now, her presence is enough.

We don’t get out of bed until the children wake up. I settle in the kitchen first, as usual. Katniss comes down with the children after they’re all dressed. I smile, say good morning as if I didn’t already say it when we were in bed, and ask her if she would like a cup of tea.

“Yes, please,” she answers. But before she sits down by the table, she flips the calendar. So that it says October.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is also written in Peeta's POV. Katniss dealing with the one-year anniversary of Gale's death was more complex than I'd originally thought it would be, so I ended up having to split the chapter. In the next chapter, Peeta goes back to the Capitol - but hey, the good news is that you'll meet Cashmere and Finnick again! :) 
> 
> As always, I love reviews, and I'm mockingjayflyingfree on Tumblr if you want to talk. Want to read more? Have you read my Prompts in Panem submission A Midwinter Night's Dream yet? And if you still haven't had your fill of holiday fics (and seriously, you can never have too much of holiday!Everlark, right?), Lbug84 just updated her fic Happy New Year.


	24. Junction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: Forced prostitution, abuse. But really, it's nothing you haven't read before in this fic, so if you've made it this far, you should be alright.
> 
> Thank you so much to Lbug84 for betaing and to Chelzie for prereading!
> 
> I'd also like to thank shininalltheway, who turned out to be the lovely, very talented anon who made the banner for me. Thank you so much! I love it, and I'm so glad I finally know who you are so I can thank you properly!

 

Katniss doesn’t come to the train station to say goodbye. The train leaves after the children are in bed;  she could have asked her mother to babysit, but we decided to say goodbye at home instead. It’s probably not a good idea for people to see us together at the train station. More importantly, it’s better for us if Katniss doesn’t see me get on the train.

I was afraid that the desperate embrace we shared on the night of the anniversary of Gale’s passing would cause a rift between us. Thankfully, it didn't. The difficult weeks following the anniversary of his death made it clear to me that Katniss and I protect each other. It's what we do. Tonight, I protect her by going to the Capitol.

I’ve packed and repacked a dozen times. I’m fidgeting, restless, and look at my watch every five minutes. Katniss looks pale and has been quiet all day. We’re in the living room, but we’re not speaking. Our untouched cups of tea have cooled on the table in front of us.

 “Is Haymitch going to the train station with you?” Katniss finally breaks the silence.

“No. I’ll spare him having to walk back to the Victors’ Village alone late at night. If he’s drunk, he could get lost and freeze to death.”

“Okay.” She swallows. “I’ll keep an eye on him while you’re gone.”

“Thank you.” I asked Haymitch to keep an eye on her, too. I hope to not only keep them safe, but also occupied. “I appreciate it, Katniss.”

“I know you love him,” she says.

“I do.” I quickly blink my tears away, but she must have seen them. Her lower lip quivers, and I open my arms for her. We cling to each other, savoring these last precious minutes together. 

“Please don’t call me while I’m there.” My voice isn’t quite clear. “It’s better if we don’t talk unless there’s an emergency.”

“Why?” she asks, pressing her face against my neck. I feel her warm breath against my skin.

“I need to keep my two worlds separate.” She stiffens in my arms.

I gently tilt her chin up so she looks directly at me. Her cheeks are wet with tears. I don’t tell her that I love her. I know it makes her uncomfortable. She’s not yet able to say it back. It doesn’t bother me anymore that she can’t, because I know that’s what she feels. No, I don't tell her that I love her. Instead, I repeat the promise I made to her before.

“I’ll come home to you.”

She opens her mouth as if to say something, but then crushes her lips against mine. The kiss is deep and desperate. When our lips part, she whispers in my ear. “You’re mine.”

She’s never said _that_ to me before.

“I am. Always. And you are mine.”

I check my watch again. “I have to go.” She nods wordlessly. “I’ll see you soon.” I run my fingers along her braid one last time. “Give my love to the children.”

The road to the train station has never felt longer than it does tonight. But I get on the train with a determination, a sense of purpose that I’ve never had on any of my previous trips to the Capitol. I need to protect them. Not just now, but in the long run. I could keep doing what I’m already doing, of course. I could be a good Victor and do whatever Snow tells me. But... there may be another way to protect them.

_Years ago, shortly after I became a victor, there were whispers. I heard them over pillows at night. Over drinks, in dark corners at Capitol clubs._

_Rebellion._

_Treason._

_Uprising._

_Some even called it a_ _war_.

I look out the train window. The leaves have fallen, but there’s no snow yet. Panem is dreary and dark. Through my traitorous thoughts, I keep my face neutral. You never know who might be watching.

 

* * *

 

We gather at the rooftop bar, as usual. Cashmere is the first to see me. She smiles widely and stands from the plush leather couch, giving me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. I hold her longer than she expects, and she relaxes against me when I do. Things are different between us now, and it’s good to see her again.

“You look good,” she says, and when I release her and look down at her, honesty shines through her eyes. I think.

I try to match her smile. “You, too.”  It’s true, of course. She always does, thanks to her prep team.

Gloss sits next to Cashmere. I haven’t seen him since I learned about their daughter. He must know that I know, but he gives no indication that anything has changed. We shake hands and exchange pleasantries about our travels here and how it’s unseasonably cold in the Capitol. It’s odd. I've spent a lot of time with everyone here, and we support each other as best as we can. These people have kept me alive. Yet there are so many things we don’t know about each other. I can't believe that I had no idea that Gloss and Cashmere have a daughter.

I greet Spar with a hearty handshake, and Diamond and Enobaria with kisses on their cheeks. I kiss Sela, the most recent victor, too. She is beautiful, with chestnut hair and delicate features, although there was nothing delicate about the way she won her Hunger Games. She is slender and fit – with a swimmer’s body, like Finnick. Diamond sits next to her, and there is something almost protective about Diamond's demeanor as she helps Sela choose a drink from the vast cocktail menu.

Finnick arrives, looking tense and uncomfortable. I rarely see him stressed, but I think he is now.

Finnick collects secrets. He must know something.

_Whether it was treason or a rebellion, it must have failed. For many years after, all was quiet. But gradually the whispers of a rebellion returned and things changed in Panem. There are power shortages now, even in the Capitol. Still, the electric fence in 12 is always on. Security is increased. Foods and goods from several districts suddenly become unavailable. The explanations for the shortages, such as that unusually long storm in 4, are flimsy._

_How can I speak with Finnick? We are under constant surveillance here. I have to find a way. He may have information that I need._

Sela coughs discreetly, snapping me out of my thoughts. Dammit. I must have been staring at Finnick. I need to get it together.

“How long have you been here?” I ask her. It’s the first thing I can think of, and only after I’ve said the words do I realize I should’ve said something else.

“Two weeks.” She doesn’t volunteer any information or try to keep the conversation going. I can’t blame her for not wanting to open up to me. She barely knows me.

“Have you had the chance to play tourist in the Capitol yet?” I ask her. “My favorite is the Panem Museum of Fine Arts.” I really need to steer the conversation to something that is not related to Snow’s business enterprise. “I’m sure you miss 4, but being in the Capitol does have its upsides.” I try to sound positive.

“Peeta’s talent was painting,” Finnick explains. “And unlike most of us, his talent wasn’t just for show. He’s actually a talented artist.”

“Really?” She tries to show polite interest, but doesn’t quite succeed. She looks like a typical disinterested teenager, and most 18-year-old girls don’t want to discuss art with a 30 plus man.

“Don’t let Peeta fool you into going to the art museum with him,” Finnick says with a twinkle in his eyes. “I did once, and I thought we’d never get out of there. Peeta kept saying ‘just one more wing,’ but there was never ‘just one more,’ and I could barely tell which way was up on most of the paintings there.” Everyone laughs, and Finnick expertly steers the discussion from art over to victor gossip and funny stories from Capitol parties, which seems to interest Sela more.

Later, when the others are speculating about which of the low-profile victors are going to join us next week for a guest performance, Cashmere and I excuse ourselves to the rooftop terrace. It’s cold, and I give her my jacket to cover her bare shoulders. We still shiver in the winter air, but the relative silence is a welcome change from the noisy bar.

“What’s up with Finnick?”

Cashmere sighs. “This is the first time he’s had a victor since Annie.” Cashmere’s voice is low. I can see from the corner of my eye that several Capitolites are staring at us, but none are close enough to hear what we are saying. “Annie was never sold, though. This is the first time he’s mentored someone through their first season.”

Finnick and Sela appear together at official functions, and soon, they’ll go on the victory tour together. He must know her family by now, and he lives next door to her, in a house he shares with his girlfriend. And this season, he has to mentor Sela as she learns to work for Snow. It will be much harder for Finnick to separate the Capitol from his home district from now on.

“Well, you and Gloss have done it several times before,” I say.

“Yeah. But there are two of us, which helps.” She pauses as a Capitolite woman comes up to us to ask for a photo. We oblige, and Cashmere doesn’t continue until the woman out of earshot. “Finnick is stressed out. It’s a tricky balance. You have to be close to the new victor, but not _too_ close, you know?”

I nod. Several new victors have had the misfortune of falling in love with a senior victor who guided him or her through the first season. It’s so easy to confuse obligation with love when you’re young and are required to be so intimate.

There’s a long pause. “How’s Katniss?” Cashmere asks.

“She’s well.” I take a sip of water. No drugs, except the ones I need to perform. No alcohol. It doesn’t bother me as much as it used to. “She told me that you two spoke.”

"Yes." She exhales in relief. “I didn’t want to bring it up, in case she hadn’t told you. I’m glad she did.”

“And I’m glad you could help her answer some of her questions.”

“It was the least I could do. She wasn’t happy that I came to 12.”

I chuckle. “That’s the understatement of the year.”

“But our visit helped her realize how she feels about you, right? Because if looks could kill…”

She laughs, and I finish her sentence for her. “… you never would’ve made it home to 1.”

“No.” She pauses. “So, you two are for real now?”

“Yeah.”

“No more secrets.” It’s not a question.

“No.”

This time, I’m sure her smile is genuine. “Good. How does it feel, now that she knows?”

“It was scary at first,” I admit. “I didn’t think she, or anyone really, would have me. With everything that we have to do here in the Capitol, it’s a lot to handle.”

“It is,” she agrees. “But she wants you.”

“Yeah.” I shake my head in disbelief.

"Don’t mess this up because you’re scared, okay?”

“I won’t.”

She smiles softly. “I’ll miss you in my bed, though. To hold me after I wake up from a nightmare.”

“Me, too.”

She lifts up her glass, half-empty. I hold her gaze as we both empty our glasses.

“I’m going inside,” Cashmere says. “I’m freezing.”

“You go ahead. I’ll stay here a little longer.” She gives me my jacket back, and I gratefully put it on. It really is freezing. I watch her step inside and through the glass, I can just about make out that she sits down next to Sela.

I didn’t really think about Sela's situation before I saw her tonight. Teaching the new victor the things they need to know before and during their first few seasons is a heavy burden to carry alone, so it's not unusual that some of us help. In the past, it's been helpful for the new victor to be with supportive partners before the first paying client.

I think about what I promised Katniss. _“I’ll never touch anyone I’m not assigned to.”_ I didn’t think about this aspect of my trips to the Capitol when I made her that promise. It was stupid of me. I should have. Perhaps the wall I’ve been constructing between the Capitol and my life in 12 was too high. I grit my teeth. In case he asks, I'll need to think of a way to tell Finnick that I can't help him out with Sela.

 

* * *

 

After my first customer, I stay in the shower for a full hour, scrubbing my skin raw. I remind myself that the first customer of the season is the worst. I also remind myself of why I’m doing this.

_Where do I go from here?_

Striking a deal with Snow is the most straight-forward and probably the safest course of action. I may not be Snow’s most prominent victor - that would be Finnick - but I am still one of the highest grossing victors in the roster. I might be able to negotiate with him. The safety of a Seam widow and her two children in 12, people who mean nothing to him, doesn’t cost him anything personally. However, the President's advanced age shines an unfavorable light on this option. He is old and his health is failing. There's no guarantee his successor would honor any agreement we make.

I had heard whispered rumors of a rebellion for a while, but Haymitch was the first person to tell me about District 13. It happened on a rainy night when I half carried him home to the Victors’ Village after a visit to the pub. He slurred a story of a District that had gone underground. Of secret weapons and soldiers. Back then I dismissed his hushed words as the ramblings of a drunk. Everyone knew that District 13 was destroyed during the Dark Days. After that night, Haymitch never mentioned District 13 again, neither drunk nor sober. But later, I started wondering. What if he was actually telling the truth? Because I did hear the words ‘District 13’ again - infrequently, and always in barely audible whispers. If District 13 actually still exists, the implications are almost too much for me to wrap my head around.

I feel the cold air from the bedroom when the door opens, but I can’t see who it is through the frosted glass.

“Get out of the shower, Peeta.”

It’s Finnick’s voice. Damn. I need to get my keycard back from Cashmere. “Why didn’t she come?”

“What do you think your girlfriend would say if another woman saw you naked?”

"Plenty of women see me naked, and Katniss knows it.”

“True, but it wouldn’t be the same if it were Cashmere.”

He’s right. I turn off the water in the shower. “Get out of my bathroom,” I growl. Finnick laughs, and I hear the door closing.

I step out of the shower, quickly dry my body, and tie a towel around my hips. I find another towel to dry my hair with and move to the bedroom.

“How was it?” he asks.

“It was Prena Tempest.” I spit the words out. Prena Tempest is a notoriously terrible customer. My wrists are still angry red from the handcuffs. There are few things I hate more than being handcuffed.

“Yeah, I heard you got her tonight.” Finnick sighs. “It gets easier after a while, Peeta. It’s almost like when you first started out – remember how your first season was the worst?” I nod. “Well, the first season after you get together is your new low point.”

“What if she doesn’t want to be with me anymore when I go home?” I ask in a low voice. “What if she decides she can’t do it?”

“Look, Katniss is tough. She’s also more than capable of making her own decisions. If she decides to leave you because of your business here in the Capitol, then there’s nothing you can do about that. The only thing you _can_ do is to stay true to who you are and remember why you’re doing this.”

I roll my eyes. “Since when did you become my therapist? ‘Stay true to who you are?’ That is _so_ cliché.”

He laughs. “That’s the spirit. Come to the bar with us?”

I shake my head.

“Cashmere told me not to take no for an answer, so you don’t have a choice. There won’t be any wallowing in self-pity tonight, Peeta.” He smiles his brightest Capitol smile at me.

“When have I ever wallowed in self-pity?”

“All the time, actually. Get dressed.”

“Fine,” I mutter.

I retrieve clean clothes from the closet and go to the bathroom to dry my hair and get changed. When I get back to my bedroom, Finnick has found a bottle of water in the mini bar.

“Ready to go?” I ask him.

"Sure," he says, but he doesn't get up from his chair. He tilts his head and looks up at me. “I’m not going to ask that of you.”

“Ask what?”

“Sela.”

I exhale in relief. "I wasn’t sure how to refuse. You’re under a lot of pressure.”

Finnick shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I promised Katniss that I won't touch anyone I’m not assigned to,” I say.

“Good. I promised Annie the same thing." He sighs heavily. "Unfortunately, this is part of the job. Don’t worry,” he says quickly, when he sees me open my mouth to apologize. “You haven't had any new victors from 12 to mentor this way. I don't expect you to agree. Annie and I have had years to adjust to the situation. You and Katniss are still trying to find out how to make this work. It’s different.”

I look down. I feel terrible for not helping him. “Do you regret it?” I ask.

Finnick furrows his brow. “Regret what?”

“Helping Sela win.”

He freezes. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. I’ve never seen Finnick this flustered. “No,” he finally answers. “She’s alive. 23 other children aren’t.”

“Was she a virgin?” I regret the question immediately. I shouldn’t ask, and I'm not sure I really want to know.

Finnick sighs. “Yeah.”

“ _Fuck_.”

“I know.” Finnick sets his now empty bottle down. “You can still help Sela, you know, even if you don’t take part in the physical part of the training. You can do what Diamond does, and help her adjust in other ways.” He smiles. “Now that you’re not constantly drunk or high, you can actually be useful.”

Be useful? I’m not sure if we’re talking about Sela anymore.

“Maybe I can be,” I answer, my voice low. I’m not sure how to interpret the look in his sea green eyes as he studies my face.  He stands from the chair and the conversation is clearly over. As we walk to the rooftop bar, we chat about casual and superficial things, as usual.

Everywhere we go, we’re being watched and our rooms are bugged. I wonder if it’s possible for Finnick to be Snow’s favorite victor and still remain part of the elusive rebellion. But somehow, I think he is.

 

* * *

 

 

 

I go through the motions.

I try to find out more about the rebellion, but all I hear are whispered rumors from a couple of clients that are contradictory and vague. Finnick doesn’t give any indication of wanting to speak to me about it. The lack of information is frustrating. If this continues, I’ll have no choice but to try to get Snow to guarantee the long-term safety of Katniss and the children. But there’s a hollow feeling in my stomach when I think about it. Maybe I’ve invested more hope in the idea of this rebellion than I realized.

Diamond seems to have come out of the haze following her first season. It’s common for new victors to spin out of control at first, until they either accept their destiny and adapt, or break down. Diamond only lost one family member before she accepted her new life, and now, it seems like helping Sela gives her some purpose.

Sela sees her first client, and things seem to be going well. My role in her training is to lend her an ear _after._ As we get to know each other, our conversations flow much better, and quickly, our talks become routine. Despite the age difference, we become friends, or at least something similar. I sit with her in the bar one night; we’re the first to return.

“How did it go tonight?”

She shrugs. “Fine.” She’s staring out the window, her eyes vacant. “They didn’t tell us about this back at the academy in 4.”

“I know. I mean, it’s not as if we have a training academy in 12, but if we did, I don’t think they’d tell the students that the fortunate victor earns a life of riches _and_ forced prostitution.”

“I feel like a fool.” She stares down into her drink, the glass half empty, as she stirs it repeatedly with the straw.

“You’re not a fool. How could you possibly know?”

She doesn’t answer right away. She leans back in her chair and looks directly at me. “Finnick is a few years older than you, right?”

“Yes. He won almost ten years before me.”

“Did he teach you, too?”

“After a while. At first it was Cashmere, Enobaria, and a few others who are retired now.”

“And you don’t find it weird to be friends with them… after?”

“It was confusing at first,” I admit. “I was young, and it was harder to distinguish between sex and feelings than it is now.” I pause. “Do _you_ think it’s weird?”

She shakes her head slowly. “I don’t know. I just… It’s confusing, like you said.” I furrow my brow. I’m not sure what’s going on behind the mask she’s already gotten good at putting up.

Over Sela's shoulder, I see Enobaria making her way over to our table. She looks upset, and as soon as she sits down, she starts ranting about her client of the night. I can’t help but double over in laughter when, in a hushed and dramatic whisper, she tells us about her client’s outrageous body art. Even Sela laughs, and I remind myself to make sure the two of them spend more time together. Enobaria may look intimidating, but when you get to know her, you realize that her humor easily rivals Johanna’s.

 

* * *

 

Every season, we are required to attend socializing events. Parties where the wealthiest and most powerful Capitolites come to see and be seen, and of course, they want their beloved victors to be there as well. Tonight, we are attending a party at the President’s mansion.

I attempt a Windsor knot three times, cursing under my breath. There’s a knock on the door and I open it. It’s Cashmere. She’s wearing a black dress, and her hair is in a simple, yet elegant updo. 

She cocks her head and smiles up at me, her blue eyes twinkling when her eyes drop to my tie. “Need some help with that?”

“Yes, thank you.” She follows me inside.

“You look great,” I tell her.

“Thanks.” Her brow furrows as she concentrates on my tie. “Cinna said my client requested the ‘classy’ look.”

I frown. Most clients don’t get to be seen _with_ _us_ at social events, let alone dictate what we are going to wear. I have a client later tonight myself, but I don’t have to give her any kind of special attention at the party. Her client must be someone very special. “Well, you can certainly do classy.”

“I can be anyone my customer wants me to be.” There’s a strange tone in her voice. She smiles triumphantly as she studies my tie knot. “There you go.”

“Thank you.” I look at the knot in the full length mirror by the door, and it’s perfect, as always. But mostly, I study Cashmere's reflection. Instead of meeting my eyes, hers flicker to the floor. Her fists are clutched and she looks pale.

“Who’s your client tonight?” I usually don’t ask, but something is clearly wrong.

“Caesar Flickerman.”

“He’s such an asshole,” I hiss. He’s bought her several times before. I remember every single one.

Caesar Flickerman is one of Panem’s biggest celebrities, having hosted the Hunger Games for more than 25 years. In fact, he’s one of the very few that has survived being a part of the Hunger Games production team for an extended period of time. I’m not quite sure what he has on Snow, but it must be _something_ , because Flickerman gets away with much more than most in the Capitol do.

“Don’t worry, Peeta. I have more than two decades’ worth of experience of dealing with sick motherfuckers.” That’s not a comfort at all. The phone rings in the background. I ignore it, but she won’t let me. “Answer it.”

I check the phone’s display, still undecided whether or not I’ll actually answer it. The screen displays the name _Haymitch_. He might have news on Katniss, and since Cashmere made it very clear she doesn’t want to speak about Flickerman, I accept the call. “Hi, Haymitch.” I immediately switch to video. He’s dressed in jeans and a dark blue sweater that looks pretty clean. He has a bottle of white liquor in his hand. “How are you doing?”

“Oh, you know. Drinking. Chasing geese. Same as always. The first snowfall came yesterday.” He grimaces. “It makes me seriously consider moving to 4.” Cashmere comes up behind me, and his face lights up. “Hi, Cashmere.”

“Haymitch,” she smiles. “Good to see you again.”

“It’s good to see you, too.” He winks at her. “I don’t suppose you’ll be coming back to 12 anytime soon?”

She laughs. “Probably not.”

“Afraid that Katniss will claw your eyes out?”

“No. We agree that she would’ve kicked Peeta’s ass in the arena, but she would most certainly _not_ have kicked mine.” She nudges me in the ribs with her elbow.

“Hey!”

Haymitch chuckles. “Well, don’t you two look fancy. Big night?”

“Party at the President’s mansion.”

“Ouch.” He’s been to his share of these parties, too. “I won’t keep you, I just need two words with you, Peeta. Katniss came over today. _Again_.”

“She did?” I feign surprise.

“Yeah. And as you might remember, you asked me to check on her, make sure she’s okay.”

“And is she?”

“As far as I can tell, yes.”

“So what is the problem?”

“Well, she’s come by every single day since you left. She brings me food, and she’s even made me _clean_.” He widens his eyes, and both Cashmere and I laugh. “It’s terrible, Peeta.”

“Her food?” Katniss may not love cooking, but her food is edible.

“No, the cleaning. She doesn’t take no for an answer, either. Anyway, you know Katniss couldn’t lie to save her life, except, strangely and unfortunately for both of us, to bluff in poker. So when I started asking her a few questions, it quickly turned out that you had asked _her_ to look after me, too.”

“And didn’t I tell both of you not to tell the other?”

“Since when do we listen to you? But you didn’t ask Katniss to report back to you regularly, so that must mean you’re more worried about her. I’m wounded, Peeta.”

I snort. “I asked her to call if there was an emergency. And even though you look like shit, you’re conscious. So clearly, there isn’t one.”

Haymitch rolls his eyes and takes a mouthful of liquor. “Katniss asked me to say hi.”

“Tell her the same from me.” My voice isn’t clear.

Cashmere looks over at the alarm clock on my night stand. “Peeta, we have to get going.”

I sigh. “I guess you’re right. Take care, okay?” I say to Haymitch. “All four of you.”

“We will. And Peeta?”

“Yes?”

“You, too.”

“Real smooth,” Cashmere laughs after I’ve ended the call.

“I expected them to figure it out,” I admit sheepishly. “I got what I wanted, though. They’re looking after each other.”

“When you can’t.”

“I’m always looking after them.”

She holds my gaze. “I know.”

 

* * *

 

The party at the President’s mansion is the same as always: loud, colorful, and nauseatingly luxurious. It’s infuriating to watch Cashmere and Flickerman from across the room, knowing that a few hours from now, that asshole will take her back to the hotel and abuse his time with her.  Flickerman is an expert at walking a fine line, never quite going far enough for Snow to completely ban him as a client. Gloss must notice my clenched jaw, because he mutters, “don’t look." I try to follow his advice, because there’s nothing I can do to protect her. So I lose myself in the crowd. I gossip, laugh, compliment, and pretend to be interested in whatever insignificant and utterly uninteresting crap the party goers talk about, and I _don’t look_.

It's two hours before the President makes an appearance. I study him from across the room. He walks slowly but unaided through the crowd, stopping seemingly at random to speak with his guests. When he reaches me, he stops.

And I don’t think there’s anything random about it.

“Mr. Mellark. It is a pleasure to see you again.”

I force a smile. “It’s a pleasure to see you too, Mr. President. The party is amazing, as always.”

His health must have deteriorated even further since the last time I saw him. The purplish tone of his skin seems to be getting harder to conceal with make-up. There is a slight wheezing sound when he breathes. And the smell of blood…

“I trust all is well in 12, Mr. Mellark?”

The President knows about my situation in 12. “It depends on who you ask,” I smile. “I spoke with Haymitch earlier today, and he complained about the first snowfall of the winter. I think he’s seriously considering spending old age on a beach in 4 with a piña colada in his hand.”

“Ah, the simple problems of life in the mountains.” Snow smiles and looks almost grandfatherly, but I know him too well to believe it. It’s not until the President finally nods goodbye that I realize that my heart is pounding in my chest. I go over everything I just said to him in my head, and to my relief, I can’t find anything incriminating. I don’t think I messed this up.

I try to find Cashmere, but I don’t see her anywhere. Flickerman isn’t here, either. Finnick must have noticed that I am looking for Cashmere, because he’s suddenly by my side. “Cashmere and Flickerman left just after they spoke with the President,” Finnick says under his breath.

“Together?”

“No, of course not. They left in separate cars.” But we both know where they are going. I clench my jaw. “She’s a big girl, Peeta. She can take care of herself.” Flickerman can’t hurt her _too_ badly. He’d get in trouble with Snow. But Finnick doesn’t say that.

The Capitolites and many of the victors are becoming increasingly more influenced by one method of intoxication or another. Finnick and I are among the few who are still sober. We survey the room silently.

“The President certainly knows how to throw a party.” Finnick says.

“He does.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Finnick is studying me closely. “The President has other interests aside from hosting parties. Have you ever seen his private rose garden?”

I shake my head. “I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never been there.” 

“It’s off-limits to most people, but my status does have certain advantages.” He winks. “It turns out the President and I share a love for beauty... and for quiet.”

I follow Finnick through the maze of corridors. Getting away from the party is a relief. We reach a courtyard in a part of the mansion I’ve never visited before. Looking up, I notice that the courtyard is covered by glass. “The glass ceiling is removed during the summer,” Finnick explains. “But it helps keep the temperature stable in winter, so the President can enjoy the roses year round.”

The rose garden is a strange place. It’s a calm, serene place of exquisite beauty. The only thing that is unpleasant is the smell – the scent of the roses is so heavy it’s almost sickening. It’s not just the smell that makes me feel uneasy, though. The roses are _too_ beautiful. Too perfect. These roses aren’t real.

As we walk along the rows of rose bushes, I learn that Finnick is knowledgeable about the flowers. He shows me the President’s collection of Old European Garden Roses, describes the proper methods of care they require, and without changing his tone, he says, “You're ready to know more. Aren't you?”

His words give me pause. I'm not sure what we're discussing anymore. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Finnick,” I answer.

His lips curl up in a smile. “Yes, you do. Don’t worry, we can speak freely, at least for a little while.” He moves closer to a thick rose bush and takes out something from his pocket. He keeps it partially hidden in his hand, but I can still see it. I can’t tell what it is, though. It’s made of gray plastic, just an inch or so across, and it’s very thin. “It blocks the bugs,” he explains. “The technicians will notice that their equipment is malfunctioning in about ten minutes, and when they do, we’ll need to move. The surveillance cameras are still working, so we should keep close to the rose bushes. Hide your face from the camera in case they try to lip read. A malfunction appears more credible when only one part of the surveillance system is knocked out.” He leans down and studies a yellow rose closely. "I know you’re not interested in flowers, so try to look bored.”

I’m so surprised it’s hard to keep my face neutral, but I do. “Understood.”

“So what made you choose us instead of the President?”

I take a deep breath. This is it. This is the chance I was so frustrated that I never got. But if Finnick is lying about that device in his hand, Katniss and the children could be dead by morning. “I need to protect my family.” My family. I’ve never called them that before. “At first, I considered a deal with Snow. Something like 'my continued cooperation in exchange for their safety,' but I know that won't work.”

“What made you decide against it?”

Apart from the fact that negotiating with the man who forces children to kill each other on TV on a yearly basis, who keeps a whole country trapped in poverty and fear, and who forced me into prostitution at the age of 16 is a terrible idea? “The President is going to die, and a deal between the former President and an aging victor won’t be worth anything to his successor.”

Finnick’s lips curl up in a smile. “And here I thought you’d feed me a story about nobly wanting to save Panem from the oppression.”

I snort. “My selfishness can’t be a surprise. I teamed up with the careers because I knew they were the winning team.”

“Of course you did, and it was a good decision. You are still alive, aren’t you? You were loyal to the careers until your own survival depended on leaving them.” Finnick leans closer to a rose bush, pretending to smell them. “You _won’t_ leave us, though. Once you’re in, there is no way out. This is not a game.”

“I know.” We keep walking. “I figured that if the rebels are going to strike, it’s got to happen when Snow is weak, but before he loses power completely or dies.”

Finnick nods approvingly. “Exactly. Snow is the devil we know. Better to deal with him than the unknown. We don't know who is in the shadows, preparing for when Snow will be gone. We have to get there first. It’s a matter of timing. We’ve been putting our people in the right places for years. We wait, we watch, and we learn.”

“How will you know when it’s time?”

Finnick’s eyes grow distant as he looks at a rose in an odd, almost bluish shade of white. “We need something else, too. _Someone_ else,” he corrects himself.

“Who?” I’m confused.

Finnick sighs. “We don’t know _who_ yet, but we know _what_. We need a symbol. Someone the people of Panem can rally behind. They love their victors, but none of us have what it takes, Peeta. We need to find, or create, someone else.”

“How?” I still don’t understand.

Finnick keeps walking along the rows of roses, and I follow him. He gestures towards some big, red ones, but his words have nothing to do with flowers. “You don’t have to worry about that. Other people, in higher places than ours, will take care of it in time.”

“So then what do I do?”

“You wait, like the rest of us. You wait, you observe, you learn secrets, but you don’t talk. Unless I explicitly tell you that someone is with us, you don’t bring up the rebellion with _anyone_. Is that understood?” I nod. ”That includes _all_ the other victors. Some you can trust, some you can’t. Right now, though, you can't trust anyone.”

“What about the surveillance?”

“We have ways of getting around that. This,” he pats his pockets discreetly, “is one of many ways. We’ll teach you in time.”

Finnick looks down at his watch. “Our time is up. I need to switch off the scrambling device.”

“Just one more question,” I nearly plead. Finnick looks up at me. “Is it true? About 13. Does it still exist?”

Finnick smiles brilliantly. “Yes.” Then he puts his hand in his pocket, and I know he’s switching the device off.

Hearing that the whispers were _true_ is making my head spin. In the distance, at the other end of the rose garden, two gardeners enter the courtyard. Or are they really gardeners? They could be technicians, trying to figure out the problem with the bugs. I smile my best smile and touch the petals of a white rose very lightly. “Have you seen this one? I think it must be my favorite.”

We pretend not to notice the gardeners. We never notice employees in the President’s mansion.

“Yes, it’s the President’s favorite rose, too,” Finnick replies.

“The President has got excellent taste.”

“He does indeed.”

The irony of plotting to overthrow the government in the President’s own rose garden is not lost on me. We return to the party, chatting amiably about nothing of importance.

 

* * *

 

I arrive back to the hotel at the appointed time. My client will be waiting for me. When I enter the lobby, I stop at the front desk. “Good evening. Has Ms. Graph returned to her room?”

Cashmere returned to the hotel hours ago, but she won’t take Flickerman to her suite. So if the hotel’s computer system records her key card unlocking the door to her suite, I'll know she’s done.

“I’m afraid we can’t give you that information, Sir,” the receptionist replies.

“Yes, of course. I understand.”

I smile. “Can I borrow a pen and some paper, please? I’d like to leave Mr. Odair a message.”

“Of course, Mr. Mellark.”

The receptionist hands me a sheet of thick, cream-colored, expensive-looking paper, an envelope in the same paper, and a pen. I scribble a few words and fold the paper in half, but I don’t put it into the envelope. Instead I hide the envelope between my body and the desk, and discreetly put some bills inside it. The receptionist is studying me from the corner of his eye.

I lean forward and hand the envelope to him, with the piece of paper on top of it. The receptionist opens his mouth to say something, but I shake my head, holding his eyes. Then his eyes dart down to the note, opening it only partially to hide the words from the security cameras. _No matter how late it gets._

“Goodnight,” I smile.

“Goodnight, Mr. Mellark.”

I turn away from the front desk and make my way towards the elevator. Towards my client.

This is my first appointment with Mrs. Minna Pratchett, which means I have to tread carefully. She's requested the fantasy of adultery, of having an affair. Now that I’m in a relationship myself, I find the idea of cheating revolting, but I’ve certainly done worse in my life. I dry swallow a few pills in the elevator.

When I get to the room, she's already there, dressed in lingerie and a sheer robe that doesn't leave much to the imagination. I grimace as I see that she has jewels embedded in her skin, but she's pretty enough with long, red hair, fair skin, freckles and strangely sad eyes. It's because of her relatively innocent looks that I'm surprised when, in addition to the stupid affair thing, she requests that I dominate her. That's fine by me, because it means that I can blindfold her and fuck her from behind with my eyes closed. But not for a second do I forget who I’m with.

When we’re done, she wants me to hold her. It happens a lot with submissive play as the adrenaline wears off, and it's by far the worst part for me. She falls asleep on my shoulder and I silently hope that I’ll never see her again. I sneak out of the room as soon as I’m certain that she’s asleep. We don’t have to spend the night with our clients. Not even someone like Flickerman can request that.

I go back to my suite, wired and exhausted. I take a long shower with the bathroom door open so I can hear the phone, should it ring. It doesn’t. I lie down on my bed and try to lose myself in Capitol television programming. The phone doesn’t ring until nearly five in the morning, when it mercifully shakes me out of my nightmare, a confusing mix of roses and mutts and murdered children.

“Yes?”

“I have relayed your message, Mr. Mellark,” the voice on the other end says.

“Thank you.”

I hang up and quickly get out of bed. I put on a shirt and a pair of jeans and run a hand through my hair. I look at my face in the mirror by the door. I look like hell. But I know she won’t care.

I find her in her bathroom. She’s standing in front of the mirror, her hair wet, staring at her own reflection. Her body is covered with a big, white towel. Without a word, I find the magic cream from District 1. I know where she keeps it.

“Where?” I ask her. She turns her back to me and lowers the towel, revealing her back full of angry, red marks. It looks like he used a whip on her this time, although some of these could be scratches. I gently cover them with cream. In the morning, they will have faded. If I apply another layer after breakfast, and she goes to Dr. Antonius to get a shot to speed up her healing, they will be almost invisible by tomorrow afternoon.

In the mirror, I can see that her eyes are distant.

The towel is around her hips. “Do you have any other injuries?”

She hesitates before dropping the towel to the floor. I wince when I see marks on the insides of her thighs. Bastard.

“If you can help me with the lower part of my thighs, I can do the rest,” she offers.

“I can do it all, Cashmere. No problem.”

“No, Peeta. You're _hers_.” She sounds tired and she's right. I am Katniss's. So I do as Cashmere suggests. I get down on my knees and, without a word, I apply the cream to the _only_ to the lower part of her thighs. Before I leave her alone in the bathroom to deal with the rest herself, I get her a couple of painkillers and a sleeping pill from the medicine cabinet. She swallows the pills without hesitation.

When she exits the bathroom a few minutes later, she’s wearing a loose nightgown. “You should try to get some sleep.” I steer her towards the bed. The sleeping pill is already starting to take effect, so I keep her steady with a firm grip around her shoulders. She slips under the covers, and I tuck her in. She falls asleep almost instantly, and I sit down in the reclining armchair in the corner, where I will hopefully get a few more hours of fitful sleep.

Tomorrow, there will be more clients to entertain and parties to attend. There are also secrets to be collected. So I'll watch, learn, and wait until it's time for the rebels to strike.

I study Cashmere’s face as she sleeps. She still looks very pale, but she’s relaxed now thanks to the drugs. The pain from before is gone. I clench my jaw. Hopefully, someday things will be different. Hopefully, someday we’ll all be free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working on the next chapter, which is the last chapter of TMW aside from a very short epilogue. It still needs a lot of work, though, so I have no idea when I'll update. Hopefully sometime in March, but I can't make any promises. In the meantime, please check out my Panem AU A Midwinter Night's Dream, which features 18-year-old, relatively trauma free Everlark. The worst problem they have is Mrs. Mellark, so it's obviously very different from TMW. :) If you're in the mood for something darker - and like Katnick - check out Lbug84's The Generosity of the Capitol, in which Katniss is the sole Victor and has to learn how to survive life as a prostitute in the Capitol - and there's also a love triangle featuring Finnick and Peeta. 
> 
> Reviews are always very inspiring, so please let me know what you think! I love hearing from you.


	25. Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
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> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, here it is - the last chapter of TMW. I’m sorry it’s taken me two months to get this out to you, but as everyone who has written a multi-chapter fic knows, writing the last chapter is hard! I have no idea how many times I’ve rewritten this chapter – in fact, I don’t want to know. LOL But I hope you’ll think that it was worth the wait. There’s a short epilogue as well, which I’ll post in a few weeks. 
> 
> Thank you to Lbug84, who’s the best beta I could ever ask for! And thank you to Chelzie, who fixes my grammar and preread this (long!) chapter in just a couple of days so I could get this chapter out to you this weekend!

**Katniss POV**

It's late when Peeta arrives home. He embraces me as soon as he’s through the door. He smells different. He smells of the Capitol. But he came home to me, just like he’d promised.

When I try to kiss him, he turns his head to the side. My lips meet his cleanly shaven cheek. “I really need to shower,” he says apologetically. He does give me a lingering kiss on the forehead, though.

He’s in the shower for nearly half an hour. When he finally comes out, I’m waiting for him in bed. I sit with my back against the headboard and my hands around my knees, looking hesitantly up at him. He’s only wearing a pair of boxer-briefs. He looks like he can barely keep his eyes open.

He slips under the sheet. “I’m so tired, Katniss,” he mumbles against my hair. His eyes flutter shut, and he falls asleep almost instantly.

He smells like himself now. Of his own soap, of 12. But I know that not everything from the Capitol can be washed away.

It almost broke me to know that Peeta left me to go to the Capitol, to have sex with countless other women and even men. But Peeta urged me to go through the motions while he was gone. Play with the children. Cook. Visit Prim. Go for walks. Check on Haymitch. So I did.

The days were okay, mainly because the kids kept me too busy to think about the Capitol, but the nights were difficult. It was hard to fall asleep in a cold and empty bed, wondering whose bed Peeta was in that night. Prim worried about me. She said that I was pale and had dark rings under my eyes. I didn't tell her why I couldn’t sleep.

But Peeta is home at last. He’s so warm, and I feel his steady heartbeat under my fingers. Even though I try to stay awake, to revel in the feeling of being near him again, I fall asleep quickly too.

 

* * *

 

I’m woken up by roaming hands and hot breath against my skin. My knee is wedged between thick, muscular thighs, and I can feel hardened flesh pressing against my hip.

“Peeta…” I moan, still half asleep. I open my eyes, blinking against the light of the bedside lamp. “What time is it?” I rub my eyes, trying to clear my head. But it’s not easy to think clearly when he’s rolling one of my nipples between his fingers. I involuntarily buck against him, a deep moan starting in the back of my throat.

“I don’t know,” he groans.

I turn around to look at the alarm clock on the night stand. It’s three in the morning. “What woke you? Was it a nightmare?”

“No,” he whispers, and his tongue darts out to lick the sensitive skin over my throat. He tugs at my nightdress, and I sit up, helping him take it off by raising my hands above my head. I quickly take off my panties, too. They’re soaking wet already. His eyes darken when he looks at my naked body. I tear at his boxer-briefs, probably hindering more than helping him.

We rediscover each other with our lips, tongues, hands and skin. But it’s hard not to wonder what he’s done with _them_ when his tongue flicks over my clit. It’s hard not to think about what they have done to _him_ when my fingers close around his cock, and he hisses something I can’t quite make out in response. Maybe that’s why we both keep our eyes open the entire time. Maybe that’s why we are face to face, always, except when he goes down on me. And even then, he looks up at me most of the time, and I look down at him, resting on my elbows, only closing my eyes when I come.

When I find the strength to open my eyes again, he’s hovering above me, his chin still moist from my desire. His lips meet mine, and I taste myself on his lips and tongue. I moan into his mouth, squirming to position him against my entrance. The tip of his cock slides over my slick, swollen folds, and he’s close, _so_ close. Then, to my disappointment, he pulls away. For a moment, I think he’s rejecting me. I open my mouth to say something, I don’t know what, but then I see what he’s doing. He’s moving off of me to lie down on his back. He pulls me along with him so that I’m straddling him.

“I want to see you,” he says in a dark, deep voice that makes my entire body tingle in anticipation. I nod, intensely relieved. I slide against him a few times, coating his cock in me while stimulating my clit, which is still overly sensitive from my orgasm. Then I sneak a hand down between us, guiding him. He gasps when the head of his cock slips inside me, and my eyes don’t leave his for a second as I slowly sink down on him. It’s been a while, and I have to take him in slowly, allowing my body some time to adjust. When our hips are flush, I’m deliciously full. I squeeze around him, and he arches his back in response. “Katniss,” he whispers. “Katniss.”

I move my hips slowly, taking him deeply. His hips thrust up to meet mine, and I have to bite my lip to stay at least mostly quiet so I don’t wake the children. His hands are on my hips, guiding them, making me take him even deeper. His eyes are fixed on my face. I grit my teeth as I realize that it’s going to take time to chase the ghosts out of our bed. But I am determined not to let them take him from me tonight. My hair hangs like a curtain around his face as I look down at him, and there’s nothing, no one, but us.

I can’t hold back a moan when he traces perfect circles around my clit with his fingers. “I want you to come, just like this,” he says, his voice low. “Just you and me, so close.”

I nod furiously. I’m quickly approaching the brink again. I give up trying to stay in control of the depth and the pace. I let him thrust into me as his fingers stroke me just right. “I’m coming,” I whimper desperately as I feel my body start to contract.

“Come for me, Katniss,” he groans, thrusting deeply into me again, and I do. I come for _him_.

I slump down on his chest, but Peeta only allows me catch my breath briefly before he turns us around. My body is limp; I’m barely able to move. He slips out of me, but enters me again as soon as we’re lying on our sides, facing each other, my thigh draped over his hip.

He fucks me, loves me, slowly and as deeply as the position allows. By the time he finally lets go, pulsing deep inside me, I’ve lost count of the number of times he’s made me come.

Afterward, we don’t speak. But our hands, lovingly and soothingly roaming over each other’s bodies, say everything.

 

* * *

 

I blink against the morning light. My entire body aches, but in a good way. Peeta is already up; I can hear him in the bathroom. I consider joining him, but I can hear through the wall that Ivy has woken up as well.

“I can go get her,” Peeta says, coming out of the bathroom. He is drying his hair, wearing only a towel around his hips. “If that’s okay?” I nod, and he smiles. “Thank you.”

I study him in the morning light as he gets dressed. Smooth, pale skin, blond hair trailing down from his belly button, perfectly chiseled muscles. When he’s dressed, he crawls over to me in bed. His pupils dilate when he looks at me. I know I must be a post-coital mess, still sleepy and with crazy hair, but I know that Peeta loves seeing me like this. He kisses me on the lips and runs his finger along my collarbone.

A few moments later, when he steps into Ivy’s bedroom, I hear my daughter squeal from joy. My guess is that he’s holding her upside down and tickling her. She loves that.

We have breakfast together, all four of us. The children are ecstatic that Peeta is home.  “Can you walk me to school, Peeta?” Arrow asks with shining eyes, and Peeta’s face breaks into a smile.

“Yes, of course,” he answers. But I notice that his voice is not quite clear.

In the afternoon, after Arrow is home from school, Peeta gives the children the presents he bought for them in the Capitol. Arrow enjoys a book about nature in the different districts. Ivy receives wooden building blocks in many different colors.  I don’t complain that those building blocks, while surely educational, are going to be all over the house in a matter of hours, and I’ll probably be the one who has to pick them up.

“Cashmere says hi,” Peeta tells the children. “And Finnick, too. You remember them, right? They came to visit us last spring?” They came to visit _Peeta_. But I don’t correct him.

“Of course.” Arrow, being the seven-year-old that he is, rolls his eyes at the thought that he’d forgotten our houseguests. Ivy is already busy throwing building blocks.

“I have a surprise from Finnick for you too,” he says. 

Ivy pauses with a block in her hand and looks up at Peeta. Her little face is suddenly serious. She clearly understands the significance of the word ‘surprise.'

Finnick has sent some sea shells from 4. The children have never seen real sea shells before, and to be honest, neither have I. We compare the seashells to the photos in Arrow’s new book, and find out what they are called. Arrow asks Peeta a lot of questions about the ocean. Peeta has only seen the ocean once, on his Victory tour, but it’s clear he made the most of his visit, because he can answer most of Arrow’s questions.

“The water tastes salty,” Peeta explains. He dissolves some salt in a cup of water. Arrow coughs and grimaces when he tastes it, and says that he prefers the water in 12. It’s hard for Arrow to picture a body of water that’s so big you can’t see the end of it. It’s hard for me to imagine, too, even though I’ve seen the lake.

The children are exhausted after all the excitement of the day, and they fall asleep almost before their heads hit their pillows. When I come downstairs, Peeta is waiting for me on the couch. I curl up with him under the blanket.

Peeta reaches between the pillows and gives me a small, black box that he must’ve hidden there. “For you.”

I sit up, looking at it curiously. “What is it?”

“Open it.”

My fingers trace the elegant curves of the golden ‘C’ on the velvet lid. “Cinna?”

“Yes. He’s branching out from clothing.” I open the box, and gasp in surprise. It’s a single-stranded pearl necklace. The surface of the pearl is iridescent. I’ve never seen anything like it. The necklace is so elegant and pure that you’d never think it was from the Capitol. “I saw this, and I thought… This necklace was made for you.”

I take the necklace out of the box. I’ve never had any jewelry before, aside from my wedding ring. His fingers brush the skin of my neck lightly as he helps me put it on, sitting behind me. He places a kiss at the back of my neck when he’s done.

I get up from the couch and go to the hallway to look at myself in the mirror. “It’s beautiful,” I tell him. “Thank you.”

He rests his hands on my hips, standing behind me with his chin resting on top of my head. “Cinna says hi, by the way.”

“I’m surprised he even remembers who I am,” I admit. Why would he care about me, a nobody from 12?

“You must’ve caught his attention.”

“How many stories have you told him about me?” I narrow my eyes suspiciously and turn around in his arms, facing him.

“Not that many,” he assures me. I’m not sure if I believe him. “But I did make a pencil sketch of you, so he knows what you look like.”

“Really?” I blush.

“Yeah. He says it’s a shame you don’t live in the Capitol, because he would’ve asked you to model for him if you did.” I snort. “I told him that modeling is probably not your thing,” he laughs, his breathing starting to get more labored as I unzip his jeans.

 

* * *

 

It’s a cold December day. It was cold four years ago, too, but unlike today, it rained non-stop. We were pretty sure Prim was having twins, but there wasn’t much we could do but wait. As the hours went on, I could see the fear in Mother’s eyes. Fear that we’d lose them, but most of all, that we’d lose _her_. It was nothing like when I gave birth to Arrow or Ivy. Both births were excruciating, but they were relatively quick and uncomplicated, and I never saw fear in Mother’s eyes.

I turn away from the window. “Are you nervous?” I blurt out. Peeta looks up from his newspaper.

“Yes,” he admits. “Are you?”

“Yes.”

I think back to the last time I spoke with Prim.

_“So, I feel like I should invite Peeta to the party,” Prim said. We had just eaten lunch, and the children were playing together. “He’s your… well. I’m not sure what he is exactly, but you’re definitely together, and as my sister’s significant other, I should invite him to the boys’ birthday party.”_

_“It matters to the rest of 12 that he doesn’t have a title,” I mutter._

_“I know, which is why I’m not quite sure what to do. Well, I don’t care really about what ‘the rest of 12’ thinks, but I want to invite Hazelle and Posy too, and that makes it complicated.”_

_“Yes.” I swallowed. Peeta and Hazelle in the same room? I had no idea how to deal with that._

_“So I was thinking that I can say to Hazelle – gently – that Peeta is going to be there. And if she doesn’t want to come, then it’s up to her and that we completely understand.”_

_I cringed. “What if she can’t do it? I’d feel terrible for being the reason why she doesn’t come to the party.”_

_“Do you have any other suggestions on how to deal with this situation, then?”_

_“No,” I admit._

When we get to Prim’s house, I hear the boys’ excited squeals from outside the door, and I smile. To our great relief after so many hours of labor, both Thomas and Ridge cried as soon as they were born. Sometimes it seems as though they haven’t stopped making noise since.

It’s not a very big party, but Seam houses are small so the house feels very crowded. It’s the four of us, plus Mother, of course. Thom’s two brothers and their wives are here as well. They have seven children between them, aged one to nine, so that’s obviously more than enough to keep the noise level high.

Posy and her husband, Slate, are here, too. They're standing next to Hazelle as I approach and greet them all. My mouth is dry when I hesitantly hug Hazelle. “It’s good to see you, Katniss,” she says, and then she shakes hands with Peeta.

“I don’t think we’ve met before,” she says. “I’m Hazelle Hawthorne.”

“Peeta Mellark. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Posy and Slate are sitting close to each other. I can see that Posy’s belly has started to swell. Far too much for a couple who got married only three months ago.

“You look wonderful,” I tell her honestly, and Posy smiles back at me, a bit uncertainly. Her eyes are darting everywhere but at Peeta.

The adults seem more subdued than usual, but thankfully, there are lots of children to distract us. At least no one says anything unpleasant, even though Prim and Mother are the only two who actively try to get Peeta involved in the conversation. Peeta is unusually quiet, considering how easy-going and good with people he is. I can tell that he’s uncomfortable, but hopefully I’m the only one who notices, because I know him so well. I know that this birthday party is going to be on everyone’s lips tomorrow – not just in the Seam, but in Town as well.

After everyone has had several helpings of cake, I take the plates and glasses to the kitchen. Prim is busy trying to mediate between the birthday boys, who are high on sugar and currently fighting over the watercolor paints we got them for their birthday. Giving them watercolors was Peeta’s idea, of course. I appreciate this brief time alone. The party is exhausting. I’m constantly worried that someone is going to say something to or about Peeta and me.

Hazelle steps into the kitchen with the empty coffee pot. I continue putting the plates into the sink, trying desperately to think of something safe to say, anything, but failing. The silence is thick in the room. 

“Peeta seems to get along very well with Ivy and Arrow.” Hazelle’s voice is neutral, her face doesn’t betray any emotion.

“Yes, he does.” My voice cracks slightly. I clear my throat and continue. “He’s not trying to take Gale’s place, Hazelle. I hope things haven’t come across the wrong way.  Peeta is not their father.”

Hazelle moves over to the sink and I sidestep so that she can fill up the coffee pot with fresh water. She doesn’t answer right away, and her voice is quiet when she finally speaks. “Peeta saved my grandchildren’s lives.”

I think back to Ivy’s thin arms and Arrow’s big eyes. If I’d gone to Cray’s that night, I would have been able to keep my children alive a while longer, but I don’t think I could’ve held his attention for very long. Cray is all about conquest. Even though he had wanted me for years, he would’ve tired of me eventually. And then what?

I nod, unable to speak.

To my surprise, Hazelle actually smiles. It’s a sad smile, but it's there. “I have eyes, Katniss. I can see it for myself. You don’t stay in Peeta Mellark’s house because you have to anymore.”

“No, I don’t.”

She looks away, out of the window. There’s a distant look in her eyes. “So few Seam widows remarry.” That’s because women outnumber men by far in the Seam. “I don’t wish a life of loneliness for anyone.”

I have no idea how to respond to that, but thankfully, I don't have to since Arrow runs into the kitchen, his cheeks red and a huge smile on his face. “We’re painting!” he exclaims.

“Are you having fun?” I ask him.

He nods enthusiastically. “Where are the caramels Peeta and I made yesterday, Mama?” he asks. Peeta did most of the work, so Arrow wouldn’t burn his fingers. But Arrow oversaw everything, and he is immensely proud of the result.

“They are in the bag over there.” I nod towards the corner. “Make sure you pass them around so that everyone can get a taste, alright?”

“I will, Mama.”

I smile as I see my son run back to the party, ecstatic to be sharing the caramels with everyone.

“He’s a good boy,” Hazelle says.

“Yes, he is,” I smile.

“So was Peeta Mellark when he was a boy, despite how his mother treated him.”

I think about the bread, about the beating. “Yes.”

“Peeta’s not really as privileged as the Capitol wants us to think, is he?”

I didn’t know Hazelle had paid so much attention to Peeta over the years. More than I did, apparently. "How did you…”

“I’ve seen two victors drink themselves almost to death, despite their big houses, their fame and their money.” She lowers her voice. “I’ve heard things over the years, too. Stories about the victors and the things they do in the Capitol that seemed too terrible for me to believe them at first. But the more I think about it, the more I wonder if those stories just might be true.” Her piercing gray eyes don’t leave mine.

“We shouldn’t talk about this,” I whisper. “It might not be safe.” Not even here, in the Seam, can I be certain that we are safe from the Capitol bugs.

“No. But talking _should_ be safe.”

Gale used to say the same thing.

She touches my shoulder briefly, as if to comfort me. Then she walks back into the living room, leaving me alone with the dishes. It takes me a few minutes to gather my composure enough to follow her.

The children are indeed painting, and to my surprise, Peeta is, too. All of the children are sitting on the floor, and Peeta is showing the youngest children how to paint. The oldest have already learned how in school. There aren’t enough brushes for everyone, but they seem to be sharing and for once, there’s no crying or fighting.  Peeta is sitting cross-legged on the floor, and Ivy is sitting in front of him. I don’t miss that most of the adults are more or less openly staring at him, but I choose to ignore it.

“What are you painting?” I sit down next to Peeta.

“A dandelion.” He gives his painting to me. “Here. It’s for you.”

It’s just a quick water color painting, done sitting on the floor with a ‘helpful’ toddler, but it’s still beautiful in all its simplicity. The shade of yellow has the perfect hint of orange. “Pah-aye,” Ivy says, pointing at a big, black dot in the lower right corner.

"Paint," I clarify, enunciating for her.

“We made the painting together,” Peeta explains. I smile. It’s pretty obvious who painted what.

“It’s beautiful, Ivy. Thank you so much. Both of you.”

I sit down by the table with the other adults. “Peeta’s talented,” Prim says, looking over my shoulder at the painting.

“Yes, he is. He’s a painter and a baker.”

“That’s an odd way to describe a victor,” Thom says.

I frown, but Peeta saves me from having to come up with an answer by getting up from the floor, holding Ivy’s hand. I can tell he has overheard our conversation. Ivy hands Hazelle the painting that she was working on. “Ivy wanted you to have this,” he says. 

“Fi,” Ivy says. Hazelle looks confused at the yellow and orange painting.

“Ivy says it’s fire,” Peeta explains.

Hazelle smiles widely, and holds out her arms for her granddaughter. “Thank you so much, baby girl.” She gives Ivy a kiss on the cheek and holds her close until she starts squirming. Hazelle releases her, and she toddles back to the other children.

Hazelle’s eyes lock with Peeta’s. “Whose idea was it to paint fire – hers or yours?”

“Mine.” He shrugs. “There was yellow left on the brush from painting the dandelion. Besides,” he adds, “Ivy is a miner’s daughter. So fire seems quite fitting, don’t you think?”

The room is very quiet. Hazelle doesn’t speak much for the rest of the party, and I catch her casting stolen glances at Peeta.

That night, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing my hair. I’m wearing a tank top, a pair of Peeta’s boxer shorts, and the pearl necklace he gave me. Even in the artificial light of the bathroom, the colors of the pearl seem to shift. Peeta enters the bathroom and stands behind me, slipping one arm around my waist while he pushes my hair out of the way with the other, allowing him to kiss my neck. He traces the thin necklace in white gold with his fingertips. Our eyes meet in the mirror.

“I wish I could give you a ring instead.” I gasp and turn around, clutching the pearl, staring at him with wide eyes. Peeta looks flushed and embarrassed. Scared, even. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I know it can’t happen, and that even if it were possible, it would be too soon.”

“Do you…” I don’t even know what I’m asking.

Peeta takes my hand in his. “I’m happy we went to the birthday party together,” he says, “But it was frustrating to know that not everyone respects our relationship.”

I’m barely able to get the words out. “We’ve made each other promises, too. They may be different from the ones other couples make in the Justice Building, but that doesn’t make them less important or less valid.”

He nods as he turns away from me, turning on the shower. I furrow my brow. I do know he likes to take a shower at night, but it doesn’t feel as though we’re done with this conversation. He turns back to face me and has an odd look on his face.

“One day, Katniss…” His voice trails off.

“One day what?”

He takes me in his arms, hugging me. His mouth is close to my ear. “One day, we’ll be free.” His voice is so low I can barely hear his words. I don’t understand what he means. No one in Panem is free, least of all Peeta. Even when he gets too old to be sold, he’ll still be a victor. He’ll have to mentor, and the Capitol won’t ever leave us alone.

Something in his eyes stops me from questioning him though. He gives me a kiss on the forehead, and then sheds his boxer briefs and steps into the shower.

 

* * *

 

The weeks pass. Midwinter, New Years’ Eve. Peeta and I have started going to Town together regularly. The first time, it turned out that we’d both made plans to go at the same time without the other knowing, and it seemed stupid to go there just ten minutes apart. I was so nervous I could barely speak on our way there. I thought being seen in public together would just fuel the gossip.

People did stare; they didn’t even attempt to hide it. Every time we entered a shop, all talk immediately stopped, but no one dared to say anything insulting to our faces. I am still hesitant, but we continue to go because Peeta says he’s sick of hiding, and he just wants people to see that we’re _normal_. Perhaps he has a point. Perhaps the more often we go to Town together, the more people will get used to us.

In January, we go to the Hob together for the first time. Peeta’s been there many times before to buy white liquor, but I know what it’s like when Town people go to the Hob – they _go_ there, but they don’t really understand it. That’s why I’m not surprised when it turns out that Peeta has never eaten Greasy Sae’s famous wild dog stew before. It’s a pretty decent one today, but I make sure not to try to identify the ingredients. That’s rule number one in the Hob, but of course Peeta doesn’t know.

“It was very good,” he says politely to Sae after he’s finished his cup. “I didn’t know there were any wild dogs inside the fence.”

“There aren’t,” Sae says with a twinkle in her eyes. “Hasn’t been any _wild_ dog in my stew since Katniss here stopped huntin’ a decade ago.”

Peeta’s eyes widen in shock, and he looks like he’s about to vomit. “Oh.”

I wink to him. “Don’t ask what’s in that stew instead of wild dog,” I tell him. “You might not like the answer.”

Sae laughs a hoarse, dark laughter. A few other people nearby laugh too, in the way they’d laugh at any Townie who had just tasted Greasy Sae’s stew for the first time. “Don’t worry, boy,” she says. “It’s the Thompsons’ old nanny goat today. She must’ve been at least 15. I had to cook her for a day.”

Peeta looks visibly relieved, despite the poor goat’s advanced age, and I have to hide my smile.

As the weeks pass, people find things other than Peeta and me to gossip about. There’s a fire, and two houses in the Seam burn down. The carpenter’s wife has an affair with a miner. Principal Lakewood surprisingly loses his job.

Ivy learns new words almost every day, and I’d almost forgotten how much I enjoy the toddler stage. Having a baby is both amazing and exhausting, but having a toddler who I can actually speak _with_ is so much fun. Arrow brings friends home from school sometimes, and he’s started walking to school on his own. He laughs more, and he’s become very attached to Peeta. Peeta teaches him to bake, and a few nights later, he even reads to my son at bedtime. Haymitch comes over for dinner several times a week. He still doesn’t look healthy, but it seems like he’s trying to at least cut down on his drinking, and he does take the drugs that the Capitol doctors prescribed for his liver.

“So what do you want to do for your birthday?” I ask Peeta one night. Last year I didn’t know the date of his birthday, but I’m not going to miss it this year. “I’m not sure how you Townies celebrate birthdays.”

“Well… uh, I was thinking maybe we could invite my family over for dinner?”

I freeze. “What?”

He looks uncomfortable. “Mistakes have been made on both our parts. I’d like to at least try to mend our relationship.” He’s clearly been giving this a lot of thought.

“And you think a dinner is going to fix it?”

“No,” he admits. “But it might be a start.”

I look down. “Your mother hates me. She thinks that I’m a whore.”

“Don’t say that word.” He clenches his jaw. “You know it’s not true.”

If he really wants to try, I suppose I should at least give it a chance. It’s Peeta’s birthday, and it is his family. I take a deep breath. “If she’s going to come to our house, there have to be some ground rules.”

His features soften. “I understand, Katniss. Thank you.” He leans forward to kiss me. “I’ll have a talk with Mother first,” he assures me. “I won’t have her insulting you or the children.”

I don’t know whether a dinner is going to help, or if it’s just going to make everything worse, but Peeta looks so relieved that I said yes that I don’t have the heart to say anything more.

 

* * *

 

Peeta is downstairs putting the finishing touches on dinner while also keeping an eye on the children. I’m frantically going through my closet. How could I not think about what to wear for this stupid birthday dinner until now? My options are limited. The dresses from my mother’s Merchant days are old and don’t fit very well, and the dress Peeta got for me in the Capitol… I certainly can’t wear _that_. Mrs. Mellark would have a heart attack. I take it out of the closet, admiring the way the fabric subtly changes color, making it almost seem like it is on fire. I do have plans for this dress later, though.

I finally settle on a dark green dress. It’s the only nice thing I’ve bought for myself since I moved in here. I’m not used to having money to buy things for myself, and old habits die hard.

I go downstairs to help Peeta with setting the table. “You look beautiful,” he smiles, kissing me on the cheek. “So remember, if Mother starts to act up, let me handle it. I’ll throw her out if necessary.”

“Okay.”

I don’t think I manage to hide how nervous I am, because he leaves the pot of sauce he’s stirring to give me a hug. “I don’t think she’ll be mean to you, Katniss,” he says reassuringly. “The power has shifted, and she knows it.”

I realize that he’s right when we are all sitting around the table. Mrs. Mellark doesn’t say anything to me directly. In fact, she doesn’t say much to anyone, but at least she’s not openly insulting me. Thankfully, the three Mellark brothers keep the conversation going, so it’s not as awkward as I had feared. The children help, too, especially Bannock’s youngest. She is only five months old and a real charmer, sitting in Ivy’s high chair, supported by pillows. Even Mrs. Mellark smiles when she’s looking at her granddaughter. At last, there is a girl in the Mellark family. I hate how Mrs. Mellark is not paying nearly as much attention to her grandsons as she is to her granddaughter, though.

Rye’s wife, Dahlia, offers to help me out in the kitchen after dinner. “I didn’t know you were such a great cook, Katniss,” Dahlia says. I look up at her in surprise, automatically searching her face for signs of her mocking me. I don’t find any.

“Actually, Peeta’s the cook in our house,” I admit.

“Wow, so he bakes _and_ cooks? Looks like I married the wrong Mellark.” She laughs. “When Rye comes home from the bakery, he says the last thing he wants to do is make _more_ food.”

“I suppose that’s understandable.  Maybe Peeta would say the same thing if he were a full-time baker, too.”

“Maybe.” Dahlia hesitates before she continues. “Peeta is a different man now. Even Fennel knows why her son has stopped drinking and is actually smiling again, even though she’d never admit it.”

“Mrs. Mellark still hates me,” I mutter.

“Well, I’m from Town and I’ve been married to her son for 15 years, and she still barely tolerates me.” Dahlia rolls her eyes. “You’re lucky to live out here. Imagine what it’s like to live in the same house as her.” I cringe, and she laughs. “Exactly.” We share a smile, and it’s weird and good at the same time. To have a kind of companionship where I least expected it.

When we come back to the living room with the birthday cake, it’s immediately clear that something has happened while we were in the kitchen. Peeta is sitting on the couch with Ivy on his lap, his jaw clenched. Everyone is looking at Mrs. Mellark, and it’s very quiet in the room. I only hear the last part of her sentence. “… not proper.”

Mrs. Mellark looks up and immediately closes her mouth when she sees me. I put the cake down on the table. Arrow comes up to me, his eyes dark and wary. I put my hand on his shoulder.

“Mama…”

“Arrow, can you please show the other children the toys in your room?” I say gently. I can tell that he understands. He nods.

“I will, Mama,” Arrow says, a serious look on his face. “But the baby is perhaps a bit too small?”

“Yes,” I smile. “She has to stay with her Mama. But I’m sure the other children would love to play with your toys.”

“Yes, Mama.” 

“I can keep an eye on them,” Dahlia offers. I nod gratefully.

I wait until they are all upstairs before I address Mrs. Mellark. “You were saying?”

“Your living arrangements are not proper. As Peeta’s mother, as the mother of a v _ictor_ , I feel it is my duty to…”

“Don’t talk to me about _duty_ ,” Peeta spits out. “Your duty as a parent was to treat your children well, to _love_ them. Certainly not to hit defenseless little boys over the head with a rolling pin.” She pales. “I invited you all here today because I hoped that we could be a family again, despite everything that has happened in the past. I am stretching out a hand here, but if you don’t treat Katniss with respect, know that we can and WILL manage just fine without you in our lives.”

Mrs. Mellark gasps. “You’d choose _her_ over your own flesh and blood?”

Peeta gets up to stand next to me, and his fingers intertwine with mine. “Katniss and the children are my family now. And when you’re family, you protect each other, no matter what.”

I know what he’s done to protect his family over the years, but they don’t.

Mrs. Mellark’s face is ashen as she stares at us, and for the first time, I see her for what she really is. She’s an old woman who has had little joy in her life. She was her husband’s second choice, she abused her children, and now she’s lost the hold she once had on her family. What does she have left?

Yes, the power has definitely shifted.

When the guests have left and the children are in bed, I come downstairs to find Peeta sprawled out on the couch. “I haven’t longed for a drink in months,” he admits. “But right now, I do. You were right. This was a terrible idea.”

“Well, I’m not so sure,” I say, sitting down next to him. I take his hand. “Your mother will probably hate me no matter what, but I think the rest of your family might come around. I talked to Dahlia in the kitchen. She was… nice.”

“She liked you. I could tell.” He smiles.

It’s weird to have Town people accept and even like me. “Maybe.” It’s almost too much to hope for. I take a deep breath. “I haven’t given you your birthday present yet.”

“It’s fine, Katniss,” he says. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Of course I had to get you a present. It’s upstairs, though. I’ll just go and get it.”

I’m nervous, but I decide not to overthink it. Once in our room, I quickly shed my clothes – all of them - and put on Cinna’s dress. I look at myself in the mirror. Slender curves, olive skin, and big, gray eyes. I unbraid my hair and run my fingers through it several times. It falls, thick and dark, in waves over my shoulders and back. There. Better. Peeta loves it when I wear my hair down.

He doesn’t hear me come downstairs. He almost never does when I’m barefoot. 

“Peeta.”

He turns around, and his jaw drops as he sees me. His mouth opens and closes several times, and I can see his pupils dilate. “You…” is all he’s able to say.

“Happy birthday, Peeta.” I was never this forward, not before I met him. I’ve thought about this a lot, worrying that it was just silly. Offering to fulfill his fantasy as his birthday present. But I hadn’t expected my heart to beat this wildly, to feel this surge of power.

He stands up from the couch. “Katniss, you… _Fuck_.” His eyes travel up and down my body, and I can see that his pants are already tenting. I don't even try to hide a smile.

“You talked about taking me up against the fridge,” I say, my voice dark. “Wearing this dress.” I close the distance between us and nibble at his throat as my fingers open the first few buttons of his button-down shirt. “You were fantasizing…” My tongue flicks out to lick his collarbone, and he hisses. “… about this. About me.”

“You’re all I’ve ever fantasized about,” he growls. “Katniss, you’re _killing_ me.”

I chuckle. My lips crush against his, and our mouths barely leave each other as we move towards the kitchen. I’m undressing him as we go, and he almost trips on his pants. “So, Peeta,” I tell him. “We’re in the kitchen. What do you want to do with me?”

“Well, I have a lifetime of fantasies to choose from, so it’s kind of hard to know where to start,” he begins as he slides a hand up under my dress. He freezes as his hand touches bare skin. “You’re… not wearing any underwear?” He takes a few deep breaths before he continues. “I swear I could come in my pants like a 16-year-old right now.” I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling.

He lifts me up onto the kitchen counter. “Right here. Lean back.” His voice is husky, and I feel myself getting wetter just from hearing it. I look down at his cock, fully erect and bobbing near his belly, and I lick my lips. He notices, and grins. “Not yet, Katniss,” he winks.

Peeta pulls my lower body a bit closer to the edge and bunches the skirt of my dress up. He drops to his knees as he spreads my thighs open, and my back arches as his tongue touches me. He starts with exploring every fold, every crevice, but studiously avoids my clit. I can feel my arousal seeping out of me and I buck against him, trying to get him to touch the one spot that needs him the most right now. “What do you want, Katniss?” he says against my sex, as he hears my impatient whimpers and moans. “You need to say it.”

It’s hard to clear my head enough to speak. My back is going to kill me tomorrow because of this damn counter, but I don’t care, not when his tongue is _there_. “Make me come,” I whine. “Please.”

His lips close around my clit, and I lose what little coherent thinking I had left. He tortures me by keeping me on the edge, almost forever, but denying me my release. Every time I’m about to come, he pauses just long enough for me to come down a little bit, and then he does it again. In the end, it’s his teeth scraping very, very lightly over my clit that unravels me.

After, I realize that my thighs are clamping onto his head, and I release him. He chuckles, getting up to stand between my legs. He suckles on his fingers, drenched with my juices, as he holds my gaze.

He helps me down from the counter, and I’m glad I have him to hold on to, because I’m not sure if my legs would support my weight right now if I hadn’t. My hand sneaks down to his cock, pumping his erection slowly. He bunches my skirt up over my hips again and lifts me up. I wrap my legs around his hips as he presses my back against the fridge.

We both exhale together as he enters me. When he’s fully inside me, he stops, keeping very still. “I just need a moment,” he groans. “You are… this is… Wow.” He looks down at my cleavage – which isn’t all that impressive really, but this dress makes the best of what I do have. He licks his lips. With the hand that’s behind my back, he pulls down the zipper a few inches, just enough for him to push the top part of the dress down to bare my breasts.

“Did you do that in your fantasy?”

“Yes.” His tongue flickers over my nipple.

“What else did you do?”

“I did this,” he says, and starts fucking me at a punishing speed. The fridge makes a thumping sound against the wall, I only hear it as if distantly, and I’m glad the children are heavy sleepers.

He tilts my hips slightly, making sure he hits the spot inside me just right. “Harder,” I pant, and he grins and complies. My nails dig into his back, and I moan deep in my throat as I capture his mouth with mine. This isn’t going to last long. I feel his cock twitching inside me as my climax brings on his, groaning my name in my ear.

Afterward, we are both panting. He keeps me up, our foreheads touching, but I can feel his body trembling, and he sinks down on the floor with me in his lap. “That was over way too fast,” he laughs breathlessly. “Sorry about that. You’re just _so_ hot in that dress.”

I laugh, too. “We’ll take our time next time, alright?”

He grins and nods. “Deal. There will definitely have to be a next time.” He shifts under me and groans. “I’m beat. How far do you think we can make it? Couch? Upstairs?”

“Let’s go upstairs,” I murmur against his neck. “If the children wake up…”

To my surprise, he sweeps me up, his strong baker’s arms carrying me upstairs as if I’m almost weightless. When he puts me down, I quickly take off the dress and we both slip under the covers, naked.

“That was the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He’s lying with his head on my shoulder. My body feels heavy, sated, and warm. I yawn. “Sometimes I wonder if this would’ve happened anyway.”

“What do you mean?” He asks.

“This. _Us_.” I can feel his body suddenly becomes tense, and I try to explain. “It sounds ridiculous, I know. I was married, and we had never even talked before the day you hired me. And even if we had met, for real, I would never have cheated on my husband.”

He starts playing with the pearl. “I know.”

“But still, sometimes it feels like… This would’ve happened anyway. Even though I know it doesn’t make any sense.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t.” His voice is sleepy.

“I love you, Peeta.”

The words just slip out. It’s not scary. It’s not too soon. There’s no guilt.

It just is.

“I love you, too.”

We fall asleep, the air in the bedroom cold from the open window.


	26. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know. It took a lot longer than two weeks. But at least this chapter is three times longer than I said it would be! 
> 
> This epilogue takes us back to where the story began. To Peeta. Because even though most of the chapters are written in Katniss's POV, TMW is Peeta’s story.

The 92nd Annual Hunger Games were different.

Peeta saw the female tribute from 11 for the first time in the Training Center during the first day of training. He knew right away that there was something different about her. He thought it was simply because she looked eerily familiar.

“She looks just like Rue,” he said under his breath to Chaff. 

Peeta had never been able to forget the little girl, whose bloody fingers he had closed a single flower around before the hovercraft picked up her body. She still featured heavily in his nightmares.

“She’s Rue’s cousin,” Chaff told him, his voice low. He, too, had never been able to forget little Rue. “She’s different, though.," Chaff chuckled lowly to himself. "She pinned me to the wall with a knife on the train," he explained as he tugged on the shoulder pad of his jacket.

“Really?” Peeta could hardly believe his own ears. "Why did she do that?"

“To get my attention,” Chaff chuckled. “Ruined the mahogany accent. Madeline was furious.”

"Effie would've been furious, too."

As they watched the girl shoot, taking down one Capitol simulation after another with her arrows, Peeta realized that he was witnessing something – or rather, someone – quite extraordinary. She had an elusive quality that Peeta couldn’t really put his finger on; something that went far beyond her obvious prowess with the bow. She had a quiet strength, an air of defiance.

“Interesting,” he said.

Peeta’s eyes met with Chaff’s. "Very interesting," Chaff agreed.

 

* * *

 

As Snow’s health deteriorated, the President gradually lost control, and his prospective successors were fighting amongst themselves. Their battle was stealthy as they fought with words, policy-making, and poison - but never with weapons. Not yet. And while the Capitolites fought one another, drawing on the Capitol for resources, the resistance grew stronger, waiting in the shadows.

It only took a few days from Chaff alerting the rebellion of the girl’s potential to receive confirmation that the time had come. Peeta didn’t know if the decision was made because the girl was considered extraordinarily promising, or if the President’s health had deteriorated to the point where they felt they had no other choice but to move ahead.

Secret plans laid long ago were set into motion.

Alliances were made. Gamemakers were being paid to look the opposite direction at critical moments. Anonymous donations were made, enabling Seeder and Chaff to provide their girl tribute with weapons, food, and medicine.

Cinna was reassigned to 11. The other designers pitied him, but Cinna claimed he had requested the transfer himself. Making the handpicked and well-trained tributes from 1 look beautiful was easy. Cinna said he wanted to make poor, overlooked 11 shine in order to prove his talent.

And shine they did. Cinna took inspiration from the vast fields of grain in 11. He designed parade clothes for the tributes that appeared to shimmer like a wheat field on a late summer day. When the girl twirled during her interview with an aging Caesar Flickerman, it looked as though the dress was illuminated by the sun. 

She became known as the golden girl.

Soon after, possibilities presented themselves that weren’t part of the rebellion’s original plans. Although initially less interesting, it turned out the girl’s district partner was not one to overlook. The boy had a way with words, and he was intelligent as well. He devised a plan to reveal his secret love for his district partner on live TV, and Panem immediately fell in love with them both.

The girl was furious, and behind the stage after the show, the boy was stunned into silence as he watched the girl protest vehemently. Peeta couldn't be sure, but the expression on the boy's face hit close to home. The boy's feelings were hurt.

The girl had no choice but to play along, though.

“I can’t believe I haven’t thought about the star-crossed lovers thing myself,” Haymitch said to Peeta one night in the bar. “It’s _genius_.” But of course, 12 never had a pair of tributes that could have been passed off as lovers, let alone someone who had an actual chance at winning the Hunger Games.

Never had Peeta gotten less sleep in the Capitol than he did that year. Mentoring his own tributes, both 16 - the girl Seam, the boy surprisingly Town – made him feel sick inside. As mentors, he and Haymitch were the only ones in the Capitol the two children could trust. Peeta had never managed to save one of his tributes, not once, but he always _tried_. But this year, he knew he would be sacrificing his tributes’ lives to save someone else. He just hoped it would be worth it.

Head Gamemaker Plutarch Heavensbee expertly set up the Games to show off the pair. To maximize the attention, Heavensbee even managed to change the rules of the Hunger Games. For the first time in history, there could be two winners - _if_ the two last remaining tributes came from the same district.

Panem loved it.

But Snow did not, and no one could go against the President’s last minute orders during the very last night of the Games. Maybe the dying President had spies among the rebellion? Or perhaps he simply didn’t care for the star-crossed lovers? Either way, the rule change was revoked. There could only be one winner after all.

Peeta could see that something died in them both as the two children looked at each other, knowing that one of them would have to murder the other. The girl quickly drew her bow, aiming the arrow at her district partner’s heart. All of Panem held their collective breaths.

The boy threw his knife away.

“It doesn’t really matter if she kills him,” Peeta thought to himself as he helplessly watched the drama unfold with his fists clenched. “She will see his face in her dreams every night for the rest of her life, but at least she will be alive."

Until then, the girl had been nothing but a piece in the Games that, unbeknownst to her, were rigged by the Gamemakers so that she would win. But at that moment, faced with having to kill her district partner, she did something unexpected.

The arena was full of an array of poisonous plants that year. Apparently, this was one of the few things the President had specifically asked for in the design phase of the Arena. The properties of some of the plants were taught to the tributes during training, but not all. With very few other sources of food available in the Arena, unless you were a Career, it was a particularly cruel twist; several tributes had already died a long, painful death from eating poisonous plants. The tributes from 11 were fortunate enough to live in a district with a similar climate to the arena, and as a result, they had been able to identify and avoid the poisonous plants relatively easily.  

Peeta watched as the President’s preference for poison worked against him.

The girl reached down and plucked a handful of leaves from one of the plants. The boy, holding her eyes, followed suit. Before any further announcements could be made, they placed the poisonous leaves into their mouths. Peeta watched the star-crossed lovers embrace each other, both bloody and their clothes torn, as chaos erupted in the training center, and probably all of the Capitol as well.

No victor? There had never been any Hunger Games without a victor. The Capitol _needed_ its victor. And what’s more, the rebellion needed the victor, too. Peeta felt his heart pound in his chest. Was the revolution going to end before it had even begun? As he stared at the screen, unable to avert his eyes, he couldn’t help but notice one thing.

Neither of them had swallowed the leaves yet.

Heavensbee hastily declared them both victors of the 92nd Hunger Games, and as the star-crossed lovers spit the leaves out of their mouths, their fingers still intertwined, the live feed was cut off from all of Panem.

 

* * *

 

As Peeta stood in the hallway of the infirmary between the rooms of the new victors, he couldn't believe it himself.

"At the end there," he said to Chaff. "They looked almost real."

"I know," Chaff replied.

 

* * *

 

A small group of victors, summoned by Heavensbee, discreetly slipped away from the festivities that always followed the end of the Hunger Games in the Capitol. Beetee’s device disabled the bugs. They could speak freely, at least for a little while.

“This is it,” Plutarch Heavensbee said, nodding towards the screen. The girl’s brown eyes were surprisingly calm as she lifted the deadly leaves to her mouth, ready to die instead of following the rules of the Games set by the Capitol. “She is the face of the revolution.”

Peeta wondered if the golden girl even knew yet. Did she even have a say in this? Would she _want_ to be the symbol of a revolution? He couldn’t imagine how anyone could want that.

He met Cashmere’s eyes from across the table, and there was a small smile on her lips.

“All Panem needs is a spark to light the fire,” Heavensbee said, his voice triumphant. And Peeta realized that the Head Gamemaker didn’t care what the golden girl wanted.

Did he himself care? Peeta wondered. He realized he probably didn’t. The girl would never be free, anyway. She was a victor. She was destined to be used by someone; it was just a question of by whom and for what purpose. Was being the symbol of the revolution better than being a prostitute against your will? To mentor children destined to be murdered, year after year?

Maybe, maybe not.

 

* * *

 

That night, Peeta had a dream. Surprisingly, it wasn’t a nightmare.

It was spring, and he was in the Meadow with Katniss, Ivy, and Arrow.

There was someone else there, too. A young girl, maybe five or six, with black hair and blue eyes. She held her brother’s hand. The boy was little more than a toddler, with blond hair and Seam gray eyes. As he and Katniss watched their children play, Katniss looked up at him with laughter in her eyes. She had a dandelion tucked behind her ear, and she smelled like sunshine. He leaned down to kiss her, and she smiled against his lips.

That’s when he woke up, in a cold, lonely Capitol bed. He kept his eyes closed as he was - for once - unwilling to let go of a dream. He tried to hold on to the feeling of Katniss in his arms, but the touch of her soft lips against his own slowly faded. In that moment, he knew.

Whatever the rebellion asked of him, he would do it. He would do anything for the chance to watch his children play in the Meadow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ending a multi-chapter fic and saying goodbye to a universe and its characters is always emotional. This has been an amazing ride. When I first started writing TMW, I did so almost reluctantly, because I thought that surely someone had done something like this before. Victor!Peeta and widow!Katniss – it didn’t really seem all that original. I couldn’t help it, though, I HAD to write this story. 
> 
> I initially thought TMW would be ten chapters long, but it just kept expanding as the storyline became clearer. I realized the characters needed to be fleshed out, including the supporting characters. And most importantly, Katniss and Peeta needed time to grow together. TMW ended up being 26 chapters long, not 10, and it took me almost a year and a half to write it. Now that I’m posting the epilogue, it feels strange – but right – to finally let this universe go. It’s time. But writing this story has been a team effort, and there are a lot of people I need to thank.
> 
> First of all, I’d like to thank Lbug84, my extraordinary beta and online best friend, for all the hours you’ve spent on this fic. Without your superb betaing skills (“this needs work”), who knows how this fic would’ve turned out! 
> 
> Thank you to Chelzie for prereading. You’re the best! 
> 
> Thank you to shininalltheway, who made the banner. When I got your anonymous PM on Tumblr, I was incredibly touched that someone loved my story so much they made me a banner – and one that was just perfect for TMW, at that! I was so happy when you revealed your identity after a while, so I could thank you properly.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, liked, followed, subscribed, left kudos, and sent me PMs on Tumblr and on FFN. You’re a big part of the reason why I write for this fandom. It’s so inspiring to read your feedback - to hear your thoughts on my story, to realize that my characters touch you. 
> 
> I’d also like to thank everyone who’s read the story without leaving feedback, because it’s very inspiring to see the story stats too. Knowing that I’ve reached so many people with my writing is amazing. When I posted the last chapter of TOM, I asked people who had read, but not yet reviewed, to please give me their thoughts on the story now that it was over. Many of them did, and I loved hearing from my silent readers – so I’d like to ask the same thing this time, too. 
> 
> I have a lot going on in RL right now, and I plan for this to be my last multi-chapter fic. I’m not going to leave the fandom, but I’ll have to focus on other things. I am still planning to finish my WIPs, and maybe I’ll write a few one-shots, who knows. I’m going on vacation now though, and nothing will be updated until after summer – September at the very earliest. The next update will probably be Midwinter. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading!


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